Comfort
by tree979
Summary: Chance relies on his friendship with Guerrero to get through the dark times, but can they still function as a team when things go further? Chance/Guerrero SLASH PAIRING! Strictly MATURE EYES ONLY! hurt/comfort, angst, action, case fic. Chapter 32 now up.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and I make no money from this.**

**Author's note: This fic is ultimately destined for slash, hence the 'M' rating. Also the 'f' key on my laptop is only working sporadically at the moment. ucking typical! Big thank you to cedricsowner for helping me wrangle this into something chapter shaped.**

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"Dude, it wasn't your fault. The kid pulled a gun on you. It was him or you."

"I know that Guerrero!" Chance snapped. He knocked back the rest of his whiskey and poured another measure in to his glass. "But maybe it should have been him that got to walk away. You ever consider that? Maybe it would have been better if the dumb little punk got to walk away and had the chance to turn his life around, instead of this!" Chance's gesture encompassed himself, Guerrero and the world in general. "My life is fucked already. There's never really going to be any way back from that, from the shit that I've done. That kid had his whole life ahead of him! He still had a shot, until I killed him."

This wasn't the first time Guerrero had had to deal with Chance's guilt over taking a life, but the fact that the life in question belonged to a teenager had undoubtedly made it harder. Guerrero knew better than to point out that although the kid was only seventeen, he was already a veteran gang-banger with enough blood on his hands to merit the death penalty in certain states. Chance knew that the kid's fate was sealed the first time he picked up a gun, but he had to believe in a person's ability to change, or else Chance himself was still Junior, the Old Man's instrument of death.

"Don't do this to yourself, Chance," Guerrero said, prising the bottle from Chance's hand. "It's done. You can't change that, and I, for one, am glad you were the one who walked away."

Guerrero knew from past experience that the worst thing he could do was to weigh Chance's life against the life that he had ended. It didn't matter that an objective assessment of the situation would prove that Chance living to fight another day, to be around to keep helping those who needed it, would be better than having another gun-toting, drug crazed gang-banger on the streets.

Guerrero found himself another glass, poured himself a generous measure of whisky and sank down into the sofa opposite Chance.

"How long can I keep doing this, Guerrero?" Chance let his head roll back and rest on the back of the armchair and closed his eyes. His glass dangled precariously from his fingers beside the arm of his chair, and he rubbed at his eyes with his free hand.

"As long as you need to, dude," Guerrero replied. "You're not alone. I've got your back, you know that."

"Yeah," Chance sighed. "I know."

"Besides, what with double-wide downstairs, the brat and the boss lady from hell, you have a team now."

Chance gave a weary little laugh at Guerrero's characterisation of his colleagues. "Have I ever told you that you really suck at giving pep-talks?"

"You might have mentioned it once or twice," Guerrero shrugged. "But if you'd rather have Winston up here telling you to keep fighting the good fight…"

"No," Chance interrupted, finally sitting up and opening his eyes. "I'm glad you're here."

Guerrero nodded and took a slug of his whiskey, and they sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes until Winston appeared in the doorway.

"Man, could you two create an even more depressing atmosphere if you tried?" Winston said. "I thought you were coming up here to make sure Chance didn't hit the bottle on his own!"

Guerrero held up his glass and gave Winston an impatient look. "He's not on his own. See?"

"Yeah, well that's not what I had in mind." Winston grumbled.

"It's fine, Winston," Chance said. "I'm fine. So quit worrying and go home already."

"Are you sure?" Winston asked doubtfully.

"I got this, big momma," Guerrero smirked.

"You need to get out more, Guerrero," Winston scowled. "Maybe then you'd come up with some fresh material."

Guerrero shrugged.

"Well, if you're sure you're okay…"

"Goodnight Winston," Chance said with an almost convincing smile.

"I'll see you tomorrow. And don't let this asshole drive anywhere if he has any more to drink!" Winston said jerking his thumb in Guerrero's direction.

Guerrero slowly and deliberately topped up his drink and held it up to Winston in a mock toast.

"Asshole," Winston muttered under his breath as he left them to it.

Chance and Guerrero slipped back into companionable silence. There was really no need for either of them to speak, Guerrero knew Chance was still torturing himself with the fact that he'd killed someone who would now never get a the opportunity to turn his life around, and Chance knew that Guerrero understood what he was going through. Winston would have tried to make Chance talk about it, to reason with him, but Chance knew there was no point in talking about it endlessly. Guerrero simply sat with him, giving him the support and understanding that he needed wordlessly and without question.

* * *

Guerrero had helped him through many dark times in this way. Sometimes it was enough for them to just have a couple of drinks and sit in silence for a while, but on other occasions Chance would keep drinking until Guerrero had to practically carry him to his bed. One night, after a case had gone spectacularly wrong, resulting in the death of their client and her young son, Chance asked Guerrero to stay. Guerrero had to admit that given Chance was even drunker than usual, it probably wasn't a good idea to leave him on his own. Chance was far too wasted to do anything but sleep it off, but with the number of loaded weapons stashed around the building, Guerrero wasn't going to take any chances. There was also the rather more mundane threat of Chance choking on his own vomit in his sleep to consider.

Guerrero sighed and kicked off his boots as he resigned himself to a less than comfortable night's rest on the battered old armchair in the corner of Chance's bedroom. There was no real danger of him falling asleep there and at least he could watch over Chance as he slept. Guerrero hauled Chance to his feet and, with one arm round his waist, guided his clumsy steps to his bedroom. Chance flopped face down onto his bed with a grunt.

"Room is spinning.." Chance complained, his voice muffled by the bedclothes.

"Yeah, it does that sometimes," Guerrero muttered as he removed Chance's shoes and socks and swung his legs up on to the bed. Chance lay there for a moment, his body twisted at an odd angle by Guerrero's efforts to get his legs up on the bed. Under normal circumstances, Guerrero probably would have cracked a joke about Chance's spectacular lack of co-ordination whilst under the influence, but these weren't normal circumstances. Chance had drunk himself into this state to get some kind of respite from the mental pain that had become unbearable. He was a mess because he was hurting, and not even Guerrero could make light of that.

"Come on, dude. That can't be comfortable."

Chance groaned and managed to roll himself over in time to see Guerrero return from the bathroom with a glass of water.

"'m not thirsty!" Chance protested as Guerrero man-handled him into a sitting position and pushed the glass into his hand.

"Trust me, dude, all that booze is going to leave you with one hell of a hangover if you don't re-hydrate."

Chance reluctantly drank about half the glass before handing it back. Guerrero left the glass where Chance could reach it on the nightstand and was about to go sit in the armchair when he felt Chance tug at the back of his shirt.

"Hey, you need something?"

"Big bed," Chance mumbled.

"Uh, I'll be right there buddy, in the chair."

Chance shook his head and patted the bed beside him. "Big bed. We can share."

Guerrero had to smile at Chance's fuzzy-headed determination. There was something endearing about him trying to be considerate towards Guerrero despite being blitzed out of his brain.

"Okay," Guerrero said, deciding that it was probably easier to just give in than it would be to argue with a very drunk and determined Chance. "But if you puke on me, I swear to god I'll make you eat it!"

"Not hungry," Chance frowned. Guerrero sighed. Chance was too far gone to even hold the most basic of conversations.

Guerrero lay down on the side of the bed that Chance wasn't currently sprawled across and tried to work out why tonight felt so different from the numerous other times they'd bunked together. It felt more intimate somehow, as if they'd crossed some kind of invisible line and it took Guerrero a moment to realise what it was that was bothering him. It was weird because they weren't just sharing a bed, they were sharing _Chance's_ bed. The sheets smelt of his cologne and the pillows still held the impression of when Chance had last laid there. Guerrero barely had time to work that out before Chance rolled over and laid his head on Guerrero's chest, simultaneously draping a heavy arm across his waist.

"Dude! I'm not a pillow!" Guerrero shoved at Chance's shoulder in attempt to make him roll back to his own side off the bed, but he refused to budge. He thought he heard Chance mumble something that sounded like "Guerrero safe" but he didn't know what to make of it. It didn't sound like a question, so Guerrero had to assume that Chance was either stating that Guerrero was safe or that Guerrero made him feel safe. Either way, Chance obviously wasn't going to move of his own accord and Guerrero was surprised to find he didn't have the heart to move him. The deep worry lines that seemed so irrevocably etched in to Chance's face only an hour or so earlier seemed to have faded away and Guerrero didn't want to shatter what fragile peace his friend had managed to find.

Although he was tired and a little drunk himself, Guerrero didn't let himself fall asleep. Guerrero had stayed behind that night to keep an eye on Chance, but he found that he also got something important out of spending this time alone with Chance, away from the chaos of the job and the rest of the team: he could relax. Of course Guerrero's version of relaxation still included a certain amount of careful watchfulness, how could it not? Even the safety and security of their building had been compromised before, and Guerrero wasn't about to let that happen again, but when the rest of the team had gone home and the building was still and silent, Guerrero could allow himself to relax in Chance's company.

Guerrero hated that Chance still insisted on shouldering the blame every time something didn't go according to plan and lives were lost, but there was so little he could do about it. As Chance had decided to deal with his guilt by drowning it in alcohol, Guerrero felt that the least he could do was to keep him company. Of course he preferred the times when things went according to plan and Chance's smile lit up the room like a million watt bulb, but the good times tended to be shared with team. Guerrero only ever seemed to get the darkest moments alone with Chance, and although he hated to see his friend in pain, he cherished them anyway.

Guerrero watched Chance sleep through most of the night curled up against him, and only slipped away when daylight began to sneak in the gaps of the blinds in Chance's bedroom. The following morning neither of them mentioned what had happened the night before, and aside from Winston's rant about Chance's obvious hangover, nothing was ever said on the matter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Sorry for the delay, this fic is proving to be a tricky one. Plus I've been distracted by some very funny emails lately!**

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It was months after the case when the client and her son died when Chance again decided to drown his guilt in hard liquor, and Guerrero found himself helping him into bed. Chance didn't ask him to stay, instead he just tugged at Guerrero's shirt until he got the message and laid down next to him. Again Chance cuddled up against Guerrero and fell asleep almost immediately. At first Guerrero was a little unnerved by the way Chance found such comfort in their odd arrangement, but he reminded himself that they had done this before, and as weird as it was, it had not caused a problem between them afterwards. It didn't matter why it worked, just that it did work, and it helped Chance claw his way back from the despair that threatened to overwhelm him. It was never exactly something they did regularly, but Guerrero was always there when Chance needed him and after a while Guerrero started to get used to the idea. They never spoke about the times that Guerrero would stay and hold Chance until he slept, but over time Chance came to accept that it was Guerrero's presence that got him through those dark and painful nights, and not just the alcohol they drank together.

Eventually there came a night when things did get awkward between them. It was after the team had wrapped up a particularly long and difficult case, and yet again Chance was holding himself responsible for things that Guerrero felt were beyond his control. Chance hadn't started the fire fight in the over-crowded shopping mall, and his quick thinking had undoubtedly saved many innocent lives, but Chance couldn't move past the memory of the ten year old boy who got caught in the cross-fire. Winston had assured him that the boy was hit by enemy fire and not by one of Chance's own rounds, but it made no difference. There was no such thing as collateral damage to Chance; the fatality of every innocent bystander weighed heavily on his already over-burdened conscience. If the kidnappers had not been firing at him, the boy would not have been shot, therefore it was Chance's fault the boy had been killed, and he wouldn't accept anyone's assertions to the contrary.

It was obvious to the whole team that Chance was in a bad way, and they each tried to comfort him, but to no avail. Ilsa tried to get Chance to talk about it but he refused to be drawn into any kind of conversation. Winston felt bad for her and tried to explain that Chance needed a little time to himself. Reluctantly Ilsa left for some foundation fundraiser that she couldn't get out of, leaving Winston with strict instructions to call her if she was needed. Ames tried to distract Chance with video games and a constant stream of lame jokes, but even her usually endless enthusiasm eventually ran out when all she got in response was a barely audible grunt from Chance as he retreated upstairs.

Finally it was just Winston and Guerrero left in the office.

"I want to go talk to him," Winston sighed, "but I don't know what good it would do. I hate it when he shuts down like this."

"Don't bother," Guerrero said. "He doesn't want to talk about it."

"It can't be healthy, the way he bottles it all up."

"Go home, Winston. I'll keep a eye on him."

"I'm not sure how well his liver will hold up to your version of keeping an eye on him!" Winston grumbled.

Guerrero shrugged. "He's going to drown his sorrows whether I'm here or not. Surely it's better that I'm here to keep an eye on him rather than let him drink alone like some washed up, dead-beat cop."

Winston glared at him and forced himself not to rise to Guerrero's bait.

"Just make sure he doesn't do anything stupid," Winston said, collecting his jacket and heading for the elevator.

When Guerrero went upstairs in search of Chance, he was surprised to find him sitting in his living room with an unopened bottle of scotch and two glasses sitting in front of him on the coffee table. Chance caught the brief look of surprise on Guerrero's face and mumbled, "It seemed less pathetic to wait for you to join me before I opened this." Chance indicated the bottle in front of him.

Guerrero nodded and sat down whilst Chance poured them both a drink.

The evening passed as many others had done before, with minimal conversation about unimportant topics that had nothing to do with the job they had just completed or Chance's feelings about the young boy's death.

Chance had drunk less than usual that night, but he still asked Guerrero to stay, despite the fact that he was more than capable than finding his own way to bed. After the horrors of the shoot-out at the mall, Guerrero was reluctant to face the night alone, so he nodded to indicate that he would stay, and followed Chance to the bedroom. There was no denying the awkwardness they both felt about sharing the bed when they were both still sober enough to know that this was a conscious decision on both sides. Chance kicked off his shoes and collapsed on to the bed fully dressed. Guerrero stood in the doorway, and Chance worried that maybe this was just too weird for him.

"You don't have to stay," Chance said, "I mean, if it's too…"

"It's fine," Guerrero said, walking in and kicking off his boots. "Just try not to drool on me this time."

Chance smiled and Guerrero could see that he was relieved.

"I promise nothing," Chance said, trying to suppress a yawn as Guerrero sat down beside him on the bed.

Chance fell asleep almost immediately but it took a while for Guerrero to wind down. He lay for a while propped up against the pillows in a reclining position, listening to the sound of Chance breathing.

As Guerrero lay there watching Chance sleep, it occurred to him just how grateful he was that Chance had asked him to stay. Guerrero's son was a few year younger than the boy at the mall, but it was all too easy for him to imagine how it could have been his own son caught in the crossfire. Guerrero did everything he could to protect his son, but there were no guarantees in life. Any number of random events could snatch his son away from him at any time and there was little Guerrero could do about it.

Guerrero silently acknowledged that Chance wasn't the only one drinking to numb his feelings that night. The combination of having too much to drink and Chance's soothing presence was the only thing that allowed him to push the images of that child's broken body from his mind and get some much needed rest. For once he was too damn tired to worry about falling into a deep sleep and being found in Chance's bed in the morning. Eventually he nodded off.

He must have fallen asleep with his head at an awkward angle because he woke with a start an indeterminate amount of time later with a dull ache in the side of his neck. It was still dark outside, and he was about to check the time on his watch when he realised that his arm was pinned against his side and he couldn't move it without disturbing Chance, who must have rolled over in his sleep. There was no way for Guerrero to get comfortable again whilst he still had one arm crushed underneath Chance, so he tried to ease it out slowly. Chance was lying on his side, facing Guerrero, but as Guerrero moved his arm free he rolled even closer and threw his arm over Guerrero's waist. Guerrero was still half propped up against the pillows and although he'd managed to free his arm, he now found he had nowhere comfortable to put it. Chance was snuggled up against his ribs with one arm wrapped around his waist. Guerrero sighed at the feeling of deja-vu. Chance was a cuddler and it seemed that this was his favourite position.

Guerrero had just decided that enough was enough and he was going to shove Chance back on to his own side of the bed, when Chance stirred and slid his leg over Guerrero's. Guerrero's stomach suddenly knotted when Chance's new position made it impossible to ignore that not only had Chance got an erection, he was also pressing it against Guerrero's leg. Chance was obviously still asleep and totally unaware of what he was doing, but somehow that made it seem worse. Guerrero had no choice, he had to wake Chance up but…

Guerrero couldn't believe he was hesitating. The idea of letting Chance continue to dry hump him in his sleep was ridiculous, but if he woke him up it would undoubtedly mean the end of them ever being able to share a bed like this again, and Guerrero didn't think he could give that up. There had never been anything overtly sexual about them sharing Chance's bed, but having Chance's aroused body wrapped around him wasn't something that had happened before. After he got over the initial shock, Guerrero found that the idea of doing more than of just sleeping along side Chance in his bed not only appealed to him, the thought of sliding his hand into Chance's pants was actually making him hard.

Chance shifted again, pulling his arm even tighter around his waist. Guerrero took a deep breathe and shook him awake.

"Dude, wake up! You're dreaming."

Chance finally rolled on to his back and Guerrero all but leapt out of the bed before Chance could rub the sleep from his eyes. Guerrero hastily shoved his hands in his pockets, hoping to hide his hard-on from Chance, but he needed have bothered. Chance was too busy grabbing the sheets and trying to hide the evidence of his own erection straining at the crotch of his jeans. Given the way Guerrero had shot out of the bed, it was obvious to Chance that Guerrero had already noticed.

"Fuck! Guerrero, I'm sorry. I didn't… I mean I wasn't…"

"Don't sweat it, dude. You were asleep. You couldn't help it."

"Did I…"

"Forget it. It's fine."

There was an uncomfortable silence as neither man was entirely sure what to do next.

"Maybe I should go," Guerrero said eventually.

Chance shook his head. "You're probably still way over the limit to drive."

"I'll crash on the couch then."

"Fine."

When Guerrero still didn't move, Chance sighed. "You don't have to sleep on the couch, Guerrero."

"I just don't know if it's a good idea for us to…" Guerrero's words trailed off when he saw the hurt look on Chance's face.

"I'm not going to fucking molest you, Guerrero."

"That's not what I meant!"

"Whatever. Sleep where you want." Chance rolled onto his side so his back was to Guerrero.

Guerrero was torn. The sensible thing to do was to go sleep on the couch so they could wake up tomorrow and pretend that this had never happened, but that would mean leaving Chance to believe that he didn't trust him. The truth was Guerrero didn't trust himself…


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Flame on!**

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"_I'm not going to fucking molest you, Guerrero."_

Those words echoed painfully in Chance's head. Who was he kidding? He must have done something already to make Guerrero leap off the bed like that! He had definitely rolled away from Guerrero as he woke up, which meant there had to be some kind of contact between them whilst he was asleep, and Guerrero had been right about one thing: Chance had been dreaming. The specifics of the dream eluded Chance, and all he was left with was a series of vague impressions. As he lay on the bed with his back to Guerrero, little flashes of his dream nudged their way back into his consciousness. Being held down by strong calloused hands… a muscular body pressed against his own… the sudden sting of teeth biting into the flesh of his neck…and through every hazy recollection was one disturbing constant; that feeling of familiarity, that comforting presence that gave away the identity of the otherwise anonymous tormentor in his dream: Guerrero.

The silence dragged on and Chance couldn't tell if Guerrero was still standing there or if he had slipped away to spend the rest of the night on the couch already. The only way for Chance to tell for sure would be to roll over and look, but what would he do if Guerrero was still there? He couldn't come clean about the fact that Guerrero had been the star of his sex dream, and how much more could he apologise for whatever it was he'd been doing in his sleep without actually knowing what the hell it was he had been doing? There was also the fact that there was no sign of the tightness in his jeans abating. How sincere an apology could he give whilst still sporting a raging hard-on?

Chance lay in an aching state of limbo, unable to even give himself the release he needed for fear that Guerrero had not left the room. Strangely, the one part of his predicament that didn't bother Chance was the fact that he'd had a sex dream about Guerrero. It should have bothered him, but somehow it just… didn't. In fact, there had been something reassuring about the dream and about the idea of sharing that kind of intimacy with Guerrero. It was something more than straight forward lust, but at the same time maybe less too. After all, he wasn't exactly sure what had happened in his dream, the details were lost to him. All he could remember was the longing he'd felt and the sensation of Guerrero holding him somehow immobile. There was not specific sexual act that Chance could recall, not even so much as a kiss. There was just Guerrero pressed against him, and his mouth at his neck followed by the sweet, sudden pain of being bitten. Did that really even count as a sex dream?

The prospect of sleep was slipping further and further away from Chance, and he was considering giving up entirely and trying to sneak past Guerrero to retrieve the rest of the bottle of whisky from the lounge, when he felt the bed sink down behind him. Guerrero had got back on the bed.

Chance froze, barely even allowing himself to breathe for fear of giving away the enormous wave of relief he felt. He felt the mattress dip behind him as Guerrero shifted closer to him, and after a moment's hesitation, he felt Guerrero rest his head against his back. Chance was struggling to keep his breathing steady, but when Guerrero put his hand cautiously on his hip, Chance couldn't stop himself from taking a sharp, audible intake of breath.

"One word, Chance," Guerrero said softly, "you say even one word, and I'm gone. Understand?"

Chance nodded, biting his lip in the darkness to stop himself from answering out loud.

Guerrero squeezed his hip and took a deep shuddering breath. When Chance felt the warm rush of breath heat the skin of his back through his t-shirt as Guerrero exhaled, he realised that if he didn't start breathing naturally, he was in danger of passing out.

Chance was breathing heavily and slightly unevenly as Guerrero slid his hand from his hip to Chance's belt buckle and began working it loose. It only seemed to take a split second for Guerrero to release Chance's cock from the confines of his jeans and at first Guerrero simply gripped it firmly and let out a strange little sigh. It took all the will power Chance had not to grind himself into Guerrero's hand, and it was only the threat of Guerrero leaving if he uttered as much as a word that stopped him from cursing and begging him to move. Just when Chance felt he couldn't take anymore waiting, Guerrero's hand slowly began to stroke back and forth and a wordless moan slipped unchecked from Chance's mouth.

Guerrero paused, as if weighing up whether or not this broke the terms he'd set about leaving if Chance spoke.

Chance felt Guerrero's hesitation, but asking him to stay would definitely break Guerrero's rules. He silently placed his hand over Guerrero's and held it there for a moment before withdrawing it again and holding perfectly still. The gesture seemed to placate Guerrero, and he began to work his hand along Chance's length again, in firm even strokes.

Chance struggled to hold back the words of encouragement that threatened to fall from his lips, and the necessity to stay silent only increased his need to say Guerrero's name and moan out loud all the words he was struggling not to say. _Fuck! Don't stop, please don't stop! I want this, I want you, I want more…_

Chance's mind reeled with the knowledge that it was Guerrero who was doing this to him, for him. Guerrero's face was buried in his back between his shoulder blades, and he could feel each hot, damp exhalation through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and judging by how raggedly Guerrero was breathing, he too was aroused by what was happening. Chance wished he could reciprocate what Guerrero was doing to him, but the situation was so fragile, with Guerrero poised to leave if Chance so much as uttered a single word, that he didn't dare do anything that might break the spell.

Guerrero made a subtle change in his rhythm, and he ran his thumb over the tip of Chance's cock, taking advantage of the small pool of warm sticky pre-cum he found there as lubrication as he trailed his thumb along the most sensitive areas of the head of Chance's cock. Chance bucked and twitched against his hand, not quite at the point of release but not far off. Guerrero moaned and pressed himself into Chance's back, finally letting himself grind his own aching cock against Chance.

When Chance felt Guerrero's unmistakable hardness pressed against his ass, he pushed back against him, rolling his hips and encouraging Guerrero to rub himself against him. Guerrero moaned and began pumping his hand faster, and when Chance reached behind him and grabbed his thigh, pulling their bodies even closer together, Guerrero let out a deep guttural moan and shuddered against Chance. A split second later Chance cried out wordlessly and shook as he came hard and fast, his semen spilling on both his t-shirt and Guerrero's still moving hand.

They lay there for a while, waiting for their breathing to slow down and for the world to stop spinning. Guerrero still held Chance's semi-hard cock, and Chance's hand was still hooked behind Guerrero's thigh, holding their bodies pressed together. Neither of them seemed to want to be the first person to move, but eventually Guerrero withdrew his hand and rolled free from Chance's grip, and stood up. Chance immediately sat up and when Guerrero saw the look of panic on his face he smiled.

"Relax, dude. I'm just going to get myself cleaned up. You might want to consider losing that t-shirt."

Chance looked down and conceded that Guerrero had a point. The front of his t-shirt was a wet, sticky mess. He slipped it off as Guerrero disappeared into the bathroom, and used it to wipe himself down.

Guerrero reappeared from the bathroom a moment later and tossed what Chance assumed were his soiled boxers in the trash before lying back down on the bed.

"Guerrero…"

"Let's not talk about this," Guerrero interrupted. "The whole not talking thing seems to be working for us right now."

Chance nodded. He had no idea what to say anyway.

Guerrero lay on his side and Chance curled up behind him with one arm wrapped around his waist and they fell asleep almost immediately.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: Just discovered a band called Hollywood Undead. They are helping me with my issues, LOL!**

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Chance wasn't surprised to wake up alone. After all, that was what usually happened whenever Guerrero stayed over, but he did feel a little twinge of disappointment. Things had definitely taken an unexpected turn the night before, and Chance had a sneaky suspicion that Guerrero's no-talking policy was likely to extend to the morning after. He knew Guerrero too well to expect him to ever bring up the subject of what they had done, and the best that Chance could hope for was that Guerrero would just pretend that it had never happened.

As Chance stripped off and stepped into the shower, he gave some serious thought to how he felt about Guerrero and why now, after all the years they'd known each other, he had started having inappropriate dreams about him. The whole question about why Guerrero had jerked him off last night, and why he had actually seemed to get off on it too, was something Chance would worry about later. He needed to work out what was going on in his own head first.

Guerrero had been the only constant in his life for a very long time, and Chance knew that what little sense of family or security he'd ever had in his messed up, uncertain life was inextricably linked to Guerrero. In his old life he had the Old Man and Baptiste, and his new life had given him Winston, then Ilsa and Ames too, but it was only Guerrero who had ever really known him as both Junior and Chance. He didn't have to hide or explain anything to Guerrero, he always just _knew_. That could explain things if Chance had actually made a conscious decision to have some kind of relationship with Guerrero, but he hadn't. Something had just happened between them and he was at a loss to explain it. The only thing that he could pinpoint as different was that he had asked Guerrero to stay whilst he was still sober enough to be in control of what he was doing. That in itself was a far more open expression of how much he needed Guerrero than he'd ever shown before, but it was still quite a stretch to go from needing him to wanting him.

Chance gave up on trying to figure out the reasons _why _it happened and thought about _what _had happened. He couldn't dismiss what happened as a purely physical reaction to an anonymous hand in the dark. He had been very aware that it was Guerrero's hand wrapped around his cock, and it had been a dream about Guerrero that had made him so aroused in the first place. And when he had started grinding against him… fuck, it shouldn't have felt so good!

"I'm too fucking old to be having a sexual identity crisis!" he groaned as he lent his head against the tiled wall and let the spray of water wash over the back of his head. His body seemed to have other ideas on the matter though. The memory of Guerrero grinding against him was enough to make his cock hard and heavy, leaving him little choice but to jerk off in the shower and hope that he could find a bit more self control when faced with Guerrero himself.

* * *

Chance tried to ignore the knot of apprehension that twisted in his gut as he descended the stairs to the office in what he hoped was his usual care-free manner. There were no visible signs of life in the office yet, so he followed the smell of coffee to the kitchen. Winston was seated at the kitchen table with a mug of fresh coffee and a copy of the morning paper, and he looked up as Chance walked in.

"Damn, Chance! You look almost human this morning! I wasn't expecting you to surface before noon. How are you feeling?"

It occurred to Chance that he'd been so preoccupied with what had happened with Guerrero since he'd woken up, that he hadn't even though about the case they'd just finished, or the little boy who'd died in the shoot-out at the mall. The guilt and regret were still there, as he knew they always would be, but they were already more tolerable and less toxic. He'd been in pretty bad shape when the team had returned from the mall the day before, and for a second Chance considered that maybe the reason Guerrero had chosen to get him off was to provide the ultimate distraction. He quickly dismissed the idea. It required a level of self-sacrifice that was far too unlikely for Guerrero.

"Honestly? Not great," Chance said, trying to keep his mind in the here and now. "But waking up without a hangover is progress."

Winston nodded and gave Chance an encouraging smile, before turning back to his newspaper.

"You'd be surprised how many people prefer to wake up that way," Winston said.

* * *

Guerrero eventually showed up at the office mid-afternoon with Ames in tow, and although Chance was trying not to pay him too much attention, the volume of the argument in progress was proving difficult to ignore, especially from his vantage point on the mezzanine floor above them. He stopped doing his Tai-Chi exercises and leaned his elbows on the railing, so he could observe the two of them arguing.

"I'm telling you it's true! There was a whole article about it online!" Ames said indignantly.

"Ames, Obama is not going to ban black cars in the state of California," Guerrero snorted.

"He is! You can kiss goodbye to the Eldo, unless you get a re-spray of course. All dark coloured vehicles are going to be banned!"

Guerrero stopped dead in the middle of the office, shaking his head at Ames' gullibility. Unfortunately Ames was too caught up in her animated explanation to notice that he had stopped, so she walked straight in to him.

"Ooof!"

"First up, watch where you're going," Guerrero said. "And second, you really can't believe everything you read online, Ames."

"I don't believe everything I read!" Ames protested, taking a couple of steps back. "I _so _don't believe that it's 'cause the president thinks black cars are somehow racist. That's just dumb."

"Someone actually posted that?" Guerrero asked as the corners of his mouth twitched in to something that was almost an amused smile.

"Yeah, but I know that's bullshit," Ames waved her hands dismissively. "The real reason is to do with CO2 emissions. It's something to do with the fact that darker coloured cars use their AC more."

Guerrero chuckled to himself at Ames' earnest explanation.

"Hey, it's science Guerrero! You can't argue with science!" she said triumphantly.

Guerrero sighed, "Yes, darker vehicles in warmer climates have been proved to be less fuel efficient due to the fact that they retain more heat than lighter coloured vehicles. A study was commissioned to address the feasibility of using reflective materials in the manufacturing process of new vehicles to address this, and it was found that it was prohibitively expensive to do, particularly with darker coloured vehicles. The idea was shelved and it's never been much more than a theory. The president had nothing to do with it."

"Oh," Ames looked deflated at Guerrero's sudden onslaught of information.

"And whilst we're on the subject of dumb-ass things you've read on the internet: there is no ghost in the background in Three Men and Baby, it's a cardboard cut out of Ted Danson, and John Wayne's autopsy didn't reveal that he had 40lbs of undigested meat in his colon. They never even did an autopsy on John Wayne because he died of natural causes. He died of cancer - no autopsy required. And no-one has ever died due to ingesting Coca-Cola and Pop-Rocks!"

"So I suppose you've researched all those things, have you?" Ames pouted.

"It's common sense, Ames." Guerrero said. "There are plenty of real cover-ups and conspiracies out there, they just tend not to involve movie-stars' colons."

Chance couldn't help laughing out loud at the exchange, and in doing so he drew attention the fact he was there. Guerrero glanced up at him, and as Chance had predicted, there was nothing in his expression to hint at how he felt about the intimacy they had shared the night before. Guerrero was just his usual guarded self.

"Hey, dude. Is Ilsa about? She wants me to look at her computer or something."

"She's not here," Chance replied. "But I think she left a list with Winston."

"Great, another one of her lists," Guerrero mumbled, slinking off to find Winston.

"We got a case yet?" Ames asked.

"Not yet," Chance said.

"No sense hanging round here then," she replied taking out her cell phone and scrolling through her contact list. "Call me if you need me."

When Ames disappeared back into the elevator, Chance was alone again, and the silence of the office seemed oppressive in contrast to the sounds of Ames and Guerrero bickering. Chance considered picking up his Tai-Chi where he'd left off, but his mind was racing and his heart wasn't in it. He wanted to work the problem out, not push it away from his conscious mind. What had happened last night was a monumental shift in his friendship with Guerrero and, like it or not, they were going to have to talk about it at some point.

_But not just yet_, Chance thought, retreating to the safety of his living room and flopping down on the couch next to Carmine. He considered switching on his Xbox and playing a little Call of Duty, but rejected the idea. It was always so much more fun playing it with Guerrero. Instead he flicked through the channels on the TV, unable to concentrate on any one program for more than a minute or two, until he happened upon the end of a local news report.

_- Our thoughts and prayers are with the family of nine year old Nathan Gainey who was tragically killed when gunmen opened fire at the Stonestown Galleria shopping mall yesterday. Nathan was only one month away from his tenth birthday and a spokesman for the Gainey family gave us this statement…_

Chance switched the TV off and ran his hands through his hair. Part of him wanted to hear all the details of the boy's life that the reporter had dug up, to hear the statement from the family and maybe find out when the boy's funeral would be. Nathan Gainey. The boy had a name now. Chance sat with his head in his hands, and tried to fight the feeling of pressure that was slowly crushing his chest. Nathan Gainey, aged nine… He couldn't even bare to be alone with that name echoing in his head. The news report had included a photo of Nathan Gainey laughing and smiling for the camera. The image seemed to have burned itself into Chance's retinas, and he found himself wondering when and where the photo had been taken.

Chance shook his head, as if he could dislodge the picture from the news report and the memory of seeing Nathan Gainey's lifeless and bloody body lying on the ground, but it was no good. The feeling of pressure on his chest made it hard to breathe, his skin was too tight and it felt as if there was a scream caught in a lump in his throat. He had to get out of that room. Even one of Winston's lectures about how he was making amends and fighting the good fight was preferable to sitting there losing his mind.

* * *

"Hey, don't blame me!" Winston bellowed. "You're the one who refused to let Ilsa's IT guys anywhere near the office! If you weren't so damn paranoid she could just pay some guy to come and fix this!"

"Do you have any idea how many times I've gained access to some idiot's office by pretending to be the IT guy? Because seriously, dude, I've lost count!"

Chance leaned in the doorway of Ilsa's office and let familiar sounds of Winston and Guerrero arguing wash over him.

"Well. That's the price of being a paranoid sociopath, Guerrero. You have to be IT support!" Winston said, through gritted teeth.

"And that wouldn't be a problem, Winston, if you kept your fat fingers off the keyboard whilst I'm working! The whole thing is in Spanish now, dude! Fucking Spanish! In case you forgot, I do not speak fucking SPANISH!"

Chance found something reassuring about listening to Winston and Guerrero snipe at each other. It grounded him. Some of the pressure on his chest eased away and he could breathe normally again.

"I speak Spanish," Chance said.

Winston looked up and seemed surprised to see that Chance had been watching them argue. Guerrero rolled his eyes in a silent gesture of frustration, and Chance found his heart didn't feel quite so leaden anymore.

"Yeah, and you also speak fluent psycho-paranoid-freak, so you can deal with him!" Winston said, jabbing a finger at Guerrero. "I'm outta here. Chance, I'll see you tomorrow."

Winston stomped past him, still muttering under his breath, and Chance was left alone with Guerrero.

"What's in Spanish?" Chance asked

Guerrero looked at him for a moment, then turned his attention back to the computer monitor.

"Ilsa wanted me to install some experimental new translation software for her. It's a only a early beta version so it's riddled with glitches and bugs. One of which seems to be that the language settings for the program itself reset to Spanish if you let a fat ex-cop with fingers like bratwurst anywhere near the keyboard!"

Chance couldn't help but smile, and when Guerrero looked up and saw the look on his face, his own expression softened slightly.

"Any chance you could take a look…?" Guerrero asked, tilting his head towards the screen.

Chance nodded and moved behind the desk so he could look over Guerrero's shoulder. At first they were both too absorbed in the problem to feel awkward around each other, but as soon as Chance had translated enough of the text on the screen for Guerrero to successfully reset the default language back to English, there was definitely tension between them.

When Guerrero stood up and grabbed his jacket as if he was about to leave, Chance panicked. He hadn't intended to even try to talk Guerrero about what had happened between them until he had a firmer grip on how he felt about it all, but seeing that news report had hit hard, and the thought of facing that crushing guilt alone was just too overwhelming.

"Guerrero. Last night…"

"…is not something we need to talk about. Ever."

Guerrero still had his jacket in his hand, but he stood rooted to the spot, avoiding Chance's gaze.

Chance was terrified of saying the wrong thing, of driving him away, and it wasn't just that he didn't want to be alone. He needed the comfort that came from being around his oldest friend.

"I'm fucked up. I know that," Chance said.

"Yeah, that's pretty much common knowledge, dude," Guerrero said, risking a glance in Chance's direction. "Is this about last night in particular?"

"I didn't think we were going to talk about that. Ever," Chance replied.

Guerrero sighed and dumped his jacket on the desk.

"What were you going to ask?" Guerrero asked, as he suddenly seemed very interested in a random floorboard.

"What?"

"Just now, you said 'last night' then you were going to ask me something. What was it?"

"You didn't hate it? What we did?" Chance blurted out the question before he had a chance to chicken out.

Guerrero smiled, but didn't look up from the floor. "No, I didn't hate it."

Chance nodded. He couldn't believe he'd actually gotten Guerrero to talk about it, and now that he had, he didn't know what to say. He decided to push his luck with another question.

"Did you feel sorry for me? Was it because you were trying to distract me?"

Guerrero finally looked him in the eye and was shocked to see how uncertain and vulnerable Chance looked. "No. If anything, I was a bit distracted myself at the time."

Chance winced at the memory of Guerrero waking him, and he wondered what he had said or done in his sleep.

"You were right," Chance said abruptly. "We really didn't need to talk about this."

He walked towards the door with half a mind to just walk to the nearest bar and lose himself in the company of strangers when Guerrero caught his arm and forced him to stop.

"Chance, don't!"

"Don't what?"

"Whatever it is you're planning to do. Just don't, okay? I know that look. That kid is still on your mind."

Chance's body seemed to sag, and Guerrero gripped his other arm and forced Chance to look at him.

"I'm here bro," Guerrero said softly. "I'm always here."

Chance nodded, then leaned in and rested his forehead on Guerrero's shoulder.

"I told you I'm fucked up," Chance mumbled.

Guerrero put one arm round Chance's waist and used his other hand to rub the back of his neck, pulling Chance closer to him.

"I know, but I'm still here."

Chance hesitantly put his hands on Guerrero's hips and lifted his head. Their eyes locked and Chance found reassurance in Guerrero's unflinching gaze.

"I'm still here, dude," Guerrero said softly. He waited for those words to really sink into Chance's mind, and when he saw that he really understood, he pulled Chance's face towards him and they kissed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: See? I didn't leave you hanging too long, did I? I _might _even be persuaded to write another chapter or two...**

* * *

If Chance had any qualms about kissing another man, he didn't show it. That first kiss was tentative, not much more than Guerrero pressing his lips lightly again Chance's, to gauge his response. The second kiss took Guerrero by surprise. Chance's lips locked on to his, and his tongue swept across his lips until Guerrero parted them, allowing Chance to deepen the kiss. Guerrero could feel the urgency and need radiating from Chance and he couldn't have stopped himself from responding to that if he'd tried. Chance's hands tightened on Guerrero's hips as he gripped Chance's hair and licked deep into his mouth.

Guerrero felt as if he was drowning in Chance. The taste, the smell, the feel of him pulling him in was overwhelming, but eventually the need for an unrestricted breath of air forced him to break away from the kiss. He drew a deep unsteady breath and braced one hand against Chance's chest before he could resume the onslaught on his senses.

"Uh, Ilsa's office may not be the best place for this, dude. Anyone could just walk in."

At first he wasn't sure that Chance had really heard or understood what he'd said. Chance was just staring at him, his pupils dilated, and his lips flushed and slightly swollen from the intensity of the kiss.

"Chance?"

Chance blinked a couple of times and said, "Upstairs." It hovered somewhere between a question and a statement, so Guerrero nodded and pushed him towards the door.

They made their way upstairs in silence, and every few steps Chance would glance behind him to make sure that Guerrero was really following. As soon as they set foot in the bedroom, Chance locked back on to Guerrero, his fingers tangled in his hair, his tongue licking at his mouth, and the hot, urgent hardness off his cock straining at his jeans as he ground against Guerrero. There was something so Chance-like about the focus and determination with which he approached the situation that Guerrero would have smiled if he weren't so preoccupied with giving as good as he got.

He pulled at Chance's t-shirt until he could slide his hands up under the fabric and splay his hands over the bare skin of his back, pressing Chance's body harder against his own. Chance pulled back for the split second it took to slip the t-shirt off, and then nuzzled against Guerrero neck, whilst his fingers worked at the buttons of his shirt. Guerrero groaned his approval as Chance stripped him of his shirt and wrapped his arms around his waist. Guerrero grazed his teeth along Chance's collarbone until he reached the base of his throat. He gripped one hand behind Chance's neck and licked back up his throat until he found the place where he could feel Chance's racing heartbeat pulsing under the skin. He licked and sucked at the spot, and his free hand grabbed at Chance's ass, pulling him closer and increasing the friction and pressure between their bodies. Chance closed his eyes and moaned, and Guerrero shoved him backwards on to the bed.

They both kicked off their shoes, and Guerrero lay down on his side next to Chance in a position that allowed him to grind against his hip as they kissed, and left a hand free to unbuckle Chance's belt. Chance was flushed and breathless, and the way his cock was straining in the confines of his jeans was testament to just how aroused he was, but still Guerrero felt a nagging hesitancy grow in Chance the further they went.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked, stopping for a moment.

"Yeah, I want this, I really do," Chance said with a half-smile. "But I've never, you know, done _this _with another guy before."

Guerrero grinned at the fact that the problem was so easily fixable, relieved that Chance wasn't having second thoughts. "Don't over-think it, dude. I've got the same bits you have. Just do what you like being done to you."

Chance gave him a thoughtful look for a moment. "I can work with that," he said.

Chance took Guerrero's words of advice to heart as he rolled over until his body weight pinned Guerrero to the bed. He began kissing Guerrero's neck as he ran his hands over his chest . His fingers found Guerrero's nipples and he pinched them hard. Guerrero gasped and shifted slightly, but he didn't seem to object to Chance being a little rough. Chance began rubbing against Guerrero, and Guerrero's hands slipped round to cup his ass again. Chance thought of the dream that was, in part at least, responsible for the situation he found himself in now, and he bit down hard on Guerrero's shoulder.

"Fuck!" Guerrero groaned as he flipped Chance back on to his back and straddled him.

"Too much?" Chance asked, with a crooked smile.

"Hell, no!" Guerrero laughed, taking off his glasses and tossing them carelessly on to the nightstand. He leaned in and kissed him, pulling back and biting Chance's lower lip every time they seemed to find a rhythm. He kept Chance on edge, not knowing whether to expect a soft swipe of his tongue, or a bite almost hard enough to draw blood. Guerrero was supporting his weight on one hand as the other finished the job of undoing Chance's belt and jeans. Chance held Guerrero's face in his hands in attempt to draw him into a deeper kiss, but Guerrero kept pulling back, teasing him by never quite being within his reach.

The way that the muscles of Chance's abdomen stood out, taut and well-defined as he tried to get close enough to kiss him was not lost on Guerrero. He ran his hands over Chance's stomach, up to his chest and pushed him back flat on the bed. Chance let out a moan of disappointment at the fact that Guerrero's attention seemed to have wandered away from removing his jeans, but he was soon distracted when Guerrero took his nipple into his mouth. His tongue flicked across it, sensitising the already hard nub, before sinking his teeth into it, making Chance moan again, this time with pleasure.

Guerrero finally dragged Chance's jeans off him, leaving him lying totally naked and exposed on the bed. Guerrero knelt between his legs, running his hands appreciatively up Chance's muscular thighs, before taking his cock in his hand.

Chance groaned at the long awaited contact, but he was determined that this time it was not going to be a one-way street. He sat up and grabbed Guerrero's belt, dragging him forward until he could work it loose, their lips meeting in a hungry, messy kiss. His fingers fumbled at the button on Guerrero's jeans for a moment, as the steady rhythm of Guerrero's hand around his cock made it difficult to coordinate his movements. Eventually he managed to get it open, and he wrenched the zipper open, slipped his hand inside and palmed Guerrero's straining erection. He didn't have much room to manoeuvre though, and the angle was all wrong.

"Stand up," Chance ordered, withdrawing his hand and immediately feeling the loss as Guerrero did the same.

Guerrero stood by the bed and Chance swung his legs over the edge of the bed so he was seated in front of him. He pulled Guerrero's jeans down to his knees as Guerrero steadied himself by placing his hands on his shoulders. Chance looked up at him as he wrapped his hand around Guerrero's cock, and began working it in an agonisingly slow rhythm. He smiled when he saw the look on Guerrero's face, his eyelids half closed over unfocused eyes, and his lips parted slightly as his breathing grew ever more ragged at Chance's touch.

Chance had been on the receiving end of more than his fair share of blowjobs, but he'd never given one before and he felt a moment's unease as he considered whether he was really ready for this. Guerrero picked up on the subtle tension in Chance's expression and squeezed his shoulder.

"It's okay, you don't have to…"

Guerrero's words were suddenly cut off as Chance guided the head of his cock into his mouth and swiped at the tip of it with his tongue.

"Fuck…" Guerrero moaned, and stroked the hair at the back of Chance's head as he took as much of Guerrero into his mouth as he could. Chance was surprised to find that Guerrero tasted almost sweet, and the hot, heavy slide of his cock against tongue and lips made him feel dizzy and even more aroused. Any lingering doubts Chance might have had over what they were doing evaporated when he heard Guerrero moan his name and grasp his shoulder as if he was losing all sense of balance.

Chance tried to draw on every toe-curling, mind-blowing technique he'd ever experienced himself to make it as good for Guerrero as he could, working what he couldn't take into his mouth with one hand, whilst the other rested on Guerrero's hip. He could tell from the way Guerrero's pelvis would twitch involuntarily that he was trying not to thrust into his mouth, and that knowledge made him try even harder to make Guerrero lose control.

When Chance looked up at him all wide-eyed and flushed with his cock still in his mouth, Guerrero nearly lost it. He pushed Chance away and dropped to his knees, kissing Chance hard, with his fingers grasping at his hair as Chance interlaced his fingers behind Guerrero neck, drawing out the kiss into a hungry chaos of tongues, lips and teeth.

Guerrero pushed him back into the mattress and kicked off his jeans, covering Chance's body with his own and grinding his cock against Chance's, making him throw his head back and moan, "Guerrero…oh fuck…"

Guerrero was right on the edge, and when Chance grabbed his ass and thrust up against him, he bit down on Chance's neck and they came together as Chance cried out his name.

They lay there for a while, Chance lying mostly on the bed with his legs over the edge, and Guerrero slumped on top of him, as the room slowly came back into focus around them. Guerrero suddenly thought he must be crushing Chance and started to roll off him, but Chance wouldn't let him, so he settled for raising himself up on his elbows instead.

"Hey," he said, enjoying the look of fucked-out contentment on Chance's face.

"Did you know?" Chance asked.

"Know what?"

"Did you know that this was what I was dreaming about last night?"

"No," he replied running his fingers through Chance's tousled hair and licking at the spot on Chance's neck that he had bitten. The skin was already darkening and Guerrero found he liked the idea of having left a mark.

"Mmmm, that's good."

"Tell me," Guerrero murmured, his lips barely leaving the skin of Chance's neck.

"Tell you what?" Chance asked,

"About your dream."

"I don't remember all of it. Just that you were on top of me…"

"Like this?"

Chance chuckled, "More like five minutes ago, but yeah like this."

"And?"

"And you bit me."

"I like biting you, dude. I might have to do that some more at some point."

"I like being bitten."

"I noticed."

Reluctantly Chance let Guerrero get up when the sticky mess between them became uncomfortable. Guerrero grabbed Chance's discarded t-shirt and wiped the worst of it up but it was clear that a shower was what was really required. He said as much but Chance dragged him back onto the bed.

"Later," Chance yawned. "Sleep first."

They settled into their usual position, with Guerrero lying on his back and Chance resting his head on his chest with one arm wrapped around his waist. Chance was asleep in under a minute and Guerrero stroked his fingers lazily through his hair until he too fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: Thank you for the lovely reviews guys. It looks like there will be a couple more chapters!**

* * *

Before Chance even opened his eyes, he knew that Guerrero wasn't in the bed. It wasn't just that his head was resting on a pillow of the man-made, and not man-shaped, variety; the mattress beside him was cold and empty. He knew he shouldn't really be surprised, but he couldn't help feeling disappointed. He opened his eyes and sat up. Sure enough, Guerrero's clothes were gone. He sat there in a sweaty mess of confusion and self-pity for a full two minutes before he noticed Guerrero standing in the doorway.

"Fuck! How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to know you have some serious abandonment issues, dude," Guerrero said with a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Chance noticed that his hair was damp and he realised that Guerrero had only snuck out to take a shower.

"I do not have abandonment issues!"

"That's debatable. You do have an excellent power shower though. You might want to make use of it."

"Probably not a bad idea," Chance conceded.

"Dinner's on me. I'll order while you shower."

* * *

Chance took his time. He tried to take advantage of the opportunity to try and figure out what exactly was going on between him and Guerrero, but things weren't really any clearer than the last time he and Guerrero had been in bed together.

_Was that really only last night?_

Everything had moved so fast. He'd gone from a totally out-of-the-blue inappropriate dream about his best friend to sucking him off in less than twenty-four hours, and although what had happened was unexpected, Chance had to admit that he had enjoyed it. And so had Guerrero. Chance was comfortable with the idea of fooling around with Guerrero again, more than that, he found the idea downright appealing. So they were what, fuck buddies now?

Maybe he was over-thinking things again. After all, they had managed to act like nothing had happened when Winston and Ames were around, so maybe they could have a physical relationship parallel, but separate from, their day to day lives. Guerrero always kept his private life separate from the team anyway, so it wasn't like he would want to make a big announcement and drag Chance kicking and screaming out of the closet. Not that he considered himself to have actually been in the closet to start with. His attraction to other men was, as far as he knew, limited to just Guerrero. Although he had a patchy history of romantic relationships with women, his sex life had never given him reason to doubt that his attraction to them had been anything less than genuine. So he was bisexual then, and that wasn't really a problem when the only man he was interested in seemed to be interested in him too.

Chance eventually came to the conclusion that he was definitely over-thinking the whole thing. Neither of them led conventional lives anyway, so why even try to put a label on what they were doing together now?

* * *

The food had already been delivered by the time Chance went and found Guerrero downstairs in the kitchen. Guerrero handed him a beer and went back to opening the boxes and checking their order.

"That was quick," Chance said noting that Guerrero had ordered from his favourite Thai restaurant, "and we're not even in their delivery area. Who'd you have to threaten to pull this off?"

Guerrero shrugged, "I have an arrangement with the manager."

Chance decided just to let that remark pass. "You want to eat here or take it upstairs and watch a movie?"

"I've got a better idea," Guerrero said. "Let's watch Serenity in the conference room."

"With all this food? Winston would freak out…"

It only took a minute to drag a couch into the conference room, and Chance was about to run upstairs for the bluray disc when Guerrero stopped him.

"Don't bother. This one's on Winston," Guerrero said as he logged on to Winston's Netflix account and set it up to stream the movie. Chance laughed when he realised what Guerrero was doing.

"Just out of curiosity, what does he use as his password?"

"Mother's maiden name," Guerrero replied, shaking his head. "He's practically begging for his account to be hacked."

Chance laughed again, and they settled in to watch the movie. It was one of Chance's favourites and usually he had no problem losing himself in the story, but as they sat there watching the movie and eating their take-out, his gaze kept flicking back to Guerrero. He didn't seem to notice, but when they had finished their meal, leaving the containers on the floor by their feet, Guerrero paused the movie and turned to Chance.

"What?" Chance asked guiltily.

"Dude, you're not watching the movie. At most you're watching me watch the movie. Are you freaking out on me?"

"No!"

"Then what's the problem?"

"I don't know," Chance confessed. "I guess it's just a little weird going from what we were doing earlier to this, like it never happened."

"I'm not pretending it didn't happen. It's just…" Guerrero paused. "It happened. And I'm okay with it."

"Me too. I don't think I could pretend it didn't happen," Chance said, watching him closely. "At least, not when we're alone."

"Thank fuck for that!" Guerrero grabbed the front of his t-shirt and pulled him closer so he could plant a rough kiss on his lips, before releasing him. "Now watch the fucking movie."

After that Chance finally began to relax. Guerrero had been sitting with one arm stretched out along the back of the couch and after a while he moved it so that he could scratch his fingertips through the hair at the back of Chance's head. By the final scenes, Chance was leaning into him and letting out the occasional contented little sigh.

"You're easier to please than Carmine," Guerrero muttered.

The relaxed, affectionate mood was shattered when they heard the arrival of the elevator. Guerrero snatched back his arm and Chance sat up, scooted right up to the other end of the couch and ran his hands over the back of his head, smoothing down his hair.

"Urgh! That is absolutely the last time I let Janey set me up with one of her loser boyfriend's sleazy friends!" Ames announced dumping her purse none too gently on the conference table. "Hey, what are you watching?"

Ames flopped down on to the couch into the place that Chance had just vacated and began picking her way through what was left of the take-out.

"What do you want Ames?" Guerrero asked in a voice that made it clear that she wasn't welcome.

"Oh, I'm so very sorry," she replied, "Am I spoiling your movie night?"

Chance could tell by the level of sarcasm Ames directed at Guerrero that she'd had quite a bit to drink.

"In a word: yes," Guerrero said glaring at her and snatching the half-empty carton of noodles from her hand.

Ames rolled her eyes, "Jeez, you've both seen this movie like a whole bunch of times already! It's the cowboys in space one again isn't it?"

Ames finally seemed to pick up on the dead-eyed stare that Guerrero was giving her, so she turned towards Chance.

"I've had way too much to drink and there was no way I was letting my so-called 'date' drive me home. - Seriously the guy had one eyebrow and a face that just screamed date-rape. I don't know what the fuck Janey was thinking! Unless she knows it was me that posted that video on you tube of her tossing her cookies all over the hood of that cop car when she got pulled over for DUI last year, but seriously why wait this long to…"

"Ames!" Chance snapped. "Is there any chance you're going to make a point any time soon?"

"Yeah, well my point was that I'm drunk and I can't drive home. I just wanted to know if someone could give me a ride home, or maybe I could just crash on a couch or….What the fuck happened to your neck?"

Chance clamped his hand against his neck but it was too late. Ames had seen the bruising where Guerrero had bitten him earlier, and he knew she wasn't likely to drop the subject until she'd got some kind of explanation.

"That one fucking huge hickey!" Ames said, as she tried to pry Chance's hand away from his neck.

"It's not a hickey!" Chance replied, frantically wracking his brain to think of another explanation for the bruising.

"Then what the hell is it?" Ames demanded.

"It's a bite," Guerrero said calmly. "I bit him."

"But why did you…?"

"We were sparring earlier," Guerrero said. "Chance was feeling sorry for himself and fighting like a little girl. So I bit him. He paid attention after that."

"Is that true?" Ames asked Chance, looking wide-eyed and pleasantly scandalised by the idea.

"Er, yeah," Chance said, looking embarrassed. "Pretty much. Although I wouldn't say I was fighting like a girl though. I was just a bit distracted." Chance caught the look Guerrero was giving him behind Ames' back and it gave him a hot, uncomfortable feeling. It was true he'd been distracted when Guerrero bit him, and although there was no way that Ames could know that it was because he'd been in bed with Guerrero, grinding their naked bodies against each other, knowing that Guerrero was thinking about it right then and there was more than enough to make him blush.

"Oh my god! Guerrero totally pwned your ass!" Ames shrieked.

Chance winced at her choice of words. He was pretty sure that Guerrero had been grabbing his ass hard enough to leave his mark there too, and the way he was smirking at him was really not helping the situation…

"I'll give you a ride home, Ames," Guerrero said, taking pity on Chance. "On one condition."

"What condition?" Ames asked suspiciously.

"You shut the fuck up. I don't want to hear about your date, your friends, or anything at all really."

Ames pouted. "Okay, but I choose the radio station."

"Deal. Go get in the Eldo."

Ames clearly wasn't happy about being told to wait in the car like some naughty child, but a ride home was a lot more than she'd really expected to get, and she knew better than to push her luck with Guerrero. She grabbed her purse and strutted out of the conference room with the peculiar dignity of someone who was drunk but was overly careful not to appear so to others. Guerrero waited until she was out of earshot before he spoke.

"I've got somewhere I've got to be in a couple of hours anyway, dude. I might as well get her out of your hair for the night."

"Thanks," Chance said, trying not to sound to disappointed.

"Look, whatever this is, I'm not going to change my mind overnight, okay?"

"Yeah," Chance sighed. "Do you think Ames really bought the story about us sparring?"

"Probably," Guerrero shrugged. "With a rep like mine people tend to believe all sorts of things that don't necessary make sense. I don't know if it's likely to wash with Winston and Ilsa though."

"Shit, I hadn't though of that."

"Just stick to the story. It'll be fine."

Chance reached across and pulled at Guerrero's shirt until his shoulder was exposed. He felt a guilty little thrill of pride that there was a fairly impressive bruise forming where he had bitten Guerrero earlier.

"At least yours is covered by your shirt," Chance smiled, running his fingers lightly over Guerrero's shoulder.

"But I know it's there," Guerrero said, covering Chance's hand with his own. "And so do you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: thank you for the lovely reviews guys! Always appreciated! This is a bit of a long chapter. It probably should have been split in two, but I didn't want to leave you with a nasty cliffhanger!**

* * *

"Where the hell is Guerrero?" Winston roared the second the elevator doors opened. Chance was so startled that he almost choked on his coffee when Winston's voice suddenly broke the silence.

"It's only eight o'clock," Chance replied. "He's not in yet."

He looked down at his shirt in dismay. He'd managed to spill coffee all down the front of the clean shirt that he put on only twenty minutes earlier, and now he was going to have to get changed already. He was never normally this jumpy but he'd been day-dreaming about what happened with Guerrero, and when Winston showed up out of nowhere bellowing his name, it had hit a raw nerve.

"That son-of-a-bitch has been poking around in my online accounts again!"

"Really?" Chance asked, his face the picture of innocence.

"Yeah, really!" Winston snapped. "And don't play innocent with me, Chance. I know what the two of you were up to last night!"

_Fuck…_

"You didn't think I'd notice that it was your favourite goddamn movie that Guerrero rented on my account? Just how stupid do you two think I am?"

Chance laughed out of sheer relief, but unfortunately Winston misinterpreted it as Chance laughing at him.

"I'm so glad you find this so funny. I know you own a copy if that movie, so the two of you obviously got a kick out of renting it out at my expense!"

"Yeah, sorry about that," Chance called out as he made a hasty retreat back upstairs to change out of his coffee-stained shirt. He wished he had been a bit more thorough about cleaning up the mess in the conference room. He'd moved the couch back and picked up the take-out cartons, but he was pretty sure there had been the odd stray noodle left on the floor, not to mention a couple of empty bottles left on the touch-screen table itself. Winston's mood wasn't likely to improve any once he found the evidence of them using the conference room as a makeshift cinema.

Chance tossed the stained shirt on floor in the general direction of his laundry hamper, and selected a fresh one from his closet. He chose another shirt with a collar in the hopes that it would at least partially cover the bruise Guerrero had left on his neck. He had his doubts that the explanation Guerrero gave Ames for the bruise would fool Winston and Ilsa, but changing their story now was only going to make the whole thing more suspicious. He'd just have to trust that Guerrero would somehow make them buy his bizarre explanation.

Winston did kick up a fuss about the mess in the conference room, and Chance let him get it out of his system with a lengthy rant before Ilsa turned up. The arrival of two women on the team had changed the team dynamics, and although Winston still complained loudly and often about Guerrero and Chance's reckless behaviour, there was an unspoken solidarity between the three men on the team. Winston accepted Ilsa's role as the team's benefactor, but he wouldn't undermine Chance by bawling him out in front of her, at least not for something as trivial as housekeeping.

When they heard the sharp tap of Ilsa's heels hitting the floor as she stepped out of the elevator, Winston finally stopped lecturing Chance about the carelessness of leaving open bottles on top of what was essentially a hugely expensive computer. Winston plastered a polite smile on his face for Ilsa's benefit, although it did falter slightly when Guerrero and Ames stepped out of the elevator after her.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Ilsa said a little stiffly.

"Morning, Ilsa," Chance replied, momentarily taken aback by her formality until the cause of her irritation became abundantly clear.

"But why did you have to pick me up so early?" Ames whined, pressing one dramatic hand to her temple and wincing. From her general demeanour and the fact that she was wearing an over-sized pair of sunglasses, Chance surmised that she was nursing a nasty hangover.

"I'm not your freakin' taxi service, Ames," Guerrero grumbled.

"Don't shout at me! I have a migraine!"

"For the last time, you do not have a migraine! You have a hangover. You brought this on yourself."

Chance realised that this was only the tail end of a very repetitive argument that Ilsa had been stuck listening to for several minutes now. It was no wonder that she had seemed a little snippy in the way she had greeted them.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" Ilsa snapped. "Go get yourself some painkillers, Ames, and do stop whinging!"

Guerrero smirked, but when Ilsa saw his expression, she snapped at him too. "And Guerrero, stop tormenting the poor girl. I'm sure she's feeling unwell enough as it is!"

Ames poked her tongue out at Guerrero from behind the safety of Ilsa's back before ducking into the kitchen, but Guerrero ignored her.

"It's going to be one of those days," Winston muttered, shaking his head.

"_Mr _Guerrero, how did you get on with that translation software I asked you to install?" Ilsa asked.

"For what it's worth, I got it running," Guerrero said. "But it's way too glitchy to be of much use."

"Oh dear," Ilsa said, looking a little deflated. "I had high hopes of it being of use to the team."

"What for?" Chance asked.

"I didn't have anything specific in mind," Ilsa said, in a slightly evasive way. "I just felt it might come in handy some day."

"Ilsa, between us we speak over a dozen languages," Chance said, frowning slightly. "We usually have things covered."

"Yes, but if the software was as good as I had been led to believe, it would have been invaluable as a fast, accurate translator."

"What do you mean 'a fast accurate translator'?"

"Oh Lord," Winston said. Chance looked at him. He obviously knew what Ilsa was hinting at, but Chance was none the wiser.

"Nothing!" Ilsa said a little too brightly. "Nothing at all!"

"Are you saying I'm not accurate?" Chance asked, looking a bit defensive as he crossed his arms over his chest. "Because I've never had any complaints about my language skills before."

"Just tell him Ilsa," Winston groaned. "He's only going to keep sulking if you don't."

"Tell me what?" Chance asked.

"Your French, it's…"

"It's what?"

Ilsa sighed. "It's not quite as good as it should be, and one day your life, all our lives, may be depending on us understanding what is being said."

"Why are you suddenly concerned about this?" Chance asked. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with my French!"

"Actually there is," Ilsa said. "I've been looking in to alternatives to having to rely on someone on the team to translate for quite some time now. This software looked like a good way to maintain our privacy and that of our clients. Do you remember when you walked into that bank in Geneva and had to fire your gun in the air to get everyone's attention?"

"Yeah, so what?" Chance said, getting more defensive by the second. "I told them to get on the floor but they were being difficult because they were, well, being all European about it."

"No, Chance," Ilsa said carefully. "What you actually said was 'everyone in the world get in the basement, get underneath the floor'."

"So?"

"Come on, Chance," Winston said, resting his hand on Chance's shoulder. "You know what Ilsa's getting at. There might come a time when we need a little more precision in translating what's being said. Not to mention the fact that you might be too busy to act as our translator. It's nothing personal…"

Chance shrugged Winston's hand away and the movement pulled at his shirt, shifting it so that the bruise on his neck, that was barely covered by his collar to begin with, was clearly visible.

"What on earth is that ugly mark on your neck?" Ilsa gasped.

"Er… It's a long story…" Chance mumbled.

"Oh, I see!" Winston frowned. "You and Guerrero had a little company here last night, did you? Is that why you were showing off? Hacking into my online accounts to impress your little girlfriends?"

"You were entertaining… female friends last night?" Ilsa demanded. "Here? In the office?"

"No!" Chance insisted. "I wasn't! We weren't…" He looked at Guerrero in a silent appeal for help, but he seemed to be content to watch Chance squirm.

"And why were you hacking into Winston's accounts?"

"We just rented a movie…"

"Oh relax, Ilsa!" Ames laughed, reappearing from the kitchen. "They didn't have anyone here last night! That's not a hickey. Guerrero bit him."

"He what?" Winston asked, his eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.

"I told you it was a long story," Chance mumbled, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow him whole.

Finally, Guerrero stepped forward, and Chance hoped he would help extricate him from the awkward situation of explaining away what was clearly a love bite.

"Chance is getting rusty," Guerrero said. "And it's not just his language skills either. All the moping about he's been doing recently has dulled his reflexes. See?"

"What the…" Chance didn't get to finished the sentence before Guerrero landed a mean right hook to his face.

"Guerrero!" Winston and Ilsa shouted in unison, whilst Ames just watched open mouthed.

"What the fuck?" Chance asked, touching his fingers to his bleeding lips. He was annoyed by Guerrero's little demonstration, but he could see what he was trying to do. He was also grateful that he had pulled the punch so that he wasn't hit full force in the face. He knew that Guerrero was more than capable of breaking a man's jaw with a punch like that.

"Chance should have seen that coming," Guerrero explained dispassionately. "If he wasn't so off his game, he could have blocked that easily."

"But why did you…" Ilsa began to ask, but Guerrero cut her off.

"We were sparring last night, Chance was getting sloppy, so I bit him. He got his mind back in the game after that. He stopped being so half-assed about it. Stopped letting his feelings get in the way."

Ilsa looked from Guerrero to Chance in disbelief.

"Is this true, Chance?" She asked.

"Yeah, I guess so," Chance said, and he was surprised to find that it didn't feel like a lie. His emotions had definitely been getting the better of him lately. Sooner or later that was bound to affect his reactions in the field.

"You can't keep blaming yourself for everything, Chance," Winston said. "No one can function carrying that amount of guilt around with them all the time."

"I know, I know," Chance said, rubbing at the back of his neck in a vain attempt to ease some of the tension that was building there.

"And you certainly can't go back out in the field until you are one hundred per cent fit!" Ilsa said.

"But…"

"She's right, dude," Guerrero interrupted. "You're not up to it right now."

Chance looked at Guerrero in disbelief. He could see that he was serious. Somehow the conversation had twisted away from bullshitting his way out of explaining the bruise into something else entirely.

"Perhaps you should take some time off," Ilsa suggested. "Maybe take a vacation?"

Guerrero shook his head. "Bad idea."

"Do I get a say in this?" Chance asked. This was _not _how it was supposed to go…

"Chance needs to get back into fighting condition, not sit around and obsess about shit he can't change," Guerrero said, ignoring Chance's protest.

"As much as I hate to say this, I think Guerrero's right," Winston said frowning. "I think Chance spends a lot more time dwelling on the past than is healthy. A vacation may just exacerbate the situation."

"Alright," Ilsa said. "Then we're decided. Chance is not to undertake another case until he is fighting fit. But, Guerrero, there will be no more biting! Chance is lucky you didn't break the skin! Do you have any idea how many nasty bacteria there are living in the human mouth? Chance could have ended up with a very serious infection!"

Guerrero didn't reply. He just gave Chance a smile that made his stomach churn.

"So if Chance is in training, or whatever, does that mean I can take a vacation?" Ames asked hopefully.

"No!" Guerrero and Winston both replied at the same time.

* * *

Chance was sulking. Guerrero couldn't really blame him. He wouldn't like being benched either, and the timing of the criticism of Chance's language skills was unfortunate. But Chance was a mess right now and Guerrero wasn't going to let him put himself in any danger until he had straightened himself out. He really should have seen that punch coming.

Chance wasn't really one for screaming arguments, especially when he was out-numbered by the entire team, but Guerrero knew that just because he wasn't yelling, it didn't mean that he wasn't pissed, and deeply hurt by the idea that he was letting everyone down. Chance's instinct was to withdraw and shut down, but Guerrero wasn't about to let that happen. He knew that Chance needed to be pushed, not coddled, but he was going to have to tread carefully.

Guerrero found Chance in the loading bay, about to take off on his bike.

"Hey, dude."

"Don't 'hey dude' me, Guerrero. I've had enough of your shit for one day."

"It kind of turned into an ambush back there. I didn't mean for that to happen."

"Is that supposed to be some kind of apology?"

"No. I meant what I said. Your head's all over the place. You're a liability right now."

Chance gave a bitter little laugh. "That's rich, coming from you."

"This isn't about us fucking, Chance."

"No? So how did it go from you making up an excuse to explain a damn hickey, to you telling Ilsa and Winston that I'm not up to the job anymore? I thought you were supposed to have my back!"

"I do. That's why I don't want you get into a bad situation that you don't have the focus to deal with at the moment."

"You think you're protecting me?" Chance asked incredulously. "Seriously? That's what this is?"

"Yes."

"I don't need fucking protection, Guerrero!"

"Then what the fuck do you need?"

The question hung unanswered between them in the heavy atmosphere of the loading bay. Guerrero stood with his hands hanging loosely at his sides, a hair's breath away from a fighting stance, ready to challenge Chance physically if needs be. Chance had one hand on the handlebars of his motorbike as if he was poised, ready to flee.

"What do you need?" Guerrero asked, softer this time.

The sudden change in Guerrero's tone caught Chance off-guard. He stepped away from the bike and ran his fingers through his hair, letting out a breath her didn't even know he'd been holding.

"How the fuck am I supposed to answer that?" Chance said, hanging his head and staring at the ground. "I don't even know…" His words tailed away into nothing.

Guerrero wasn't about to let Chance sink into another private pity party. He closed the distance between them and shoved Chance hard, making him stagger backwards into the wall behind him. He barely had time to throw out an arm behind him to stop his head from smacking against the wall before Guerrero was gripping the front of his shirt and pushing him back against the wall.

"You are not responsible for every shitty thing that happens in this world, but you are responsible for this stupid team!"

Chance glared at him but said nothing.

"What's it going to take, Chance? What is it that you need to hear?" Guerrero's frustration was in danger of getting the better of him. He was tempted just to beat Chance to a bloody pulp just to get some kind of response out of him. Anything would be better than him just standing there, glaring at him, refusing to speak.

"Winston, Ilsa, Ames, they all need you!"

Chance flinched, as if being reminded of that fact was an accusation of failing them, instead of the reassurance it was intended to be.

"Fuck it," Guerrero groaned. "_I _need you."

Finally Guerrero saw a chink in Chance's misery. His eyes widened a little at Guerrero's admission. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"You don't need anyone, Guerrero. You never did."

"No, I didn't," Guerrero agreed. "But here I am. And that's because of you."

At first, Chance didn't respond, and Guerrero was giving serious consideration to plan B: beating some sense into him, but then something in Chance seemed to give. He nodded at Guerrero and rested his hands on his biceps, giving them the briefest of squeezes then dropping his hands back to his sides.

That was it. Guerrero realised that somehow he'd managed to drag Chance back into the here and now. He smiled for a second, then pressed his mouth to Chance's in a bruising kiss. Chance pulled away abruptly.

"The cameras!" he hissed. "They could be watching this from the office!"

Guerrero chuckled. "Relax, dude. I cut the feed on my way down here."

"You really think Winston won't figure that out and get the cameras back online?"

"No," Guerrero smirked. "I meant that I _really _cut the feed. The cameras are going to need re-wiring before anyone upstairs can see what's going on down here. Now, shut up and relax."

Guerrero still had Chance pressed against the wall, but he let go of Chance's shirt and took his face in his hands, pulling him into a deeper kiss as Chance slipped his arms around his waist. Guerrero hadn't been entirely sure why he had disconnected the cameras. He just knew that he needed privacy to talk, or if necessary beat, some sense into Chance, but this was infinitely better. He could feel Chance getting hard and he decided that this was too good an opportunity to waste. He slid one hand down over Chance's chest and then pressed it firmly against the bulge at Chance's crotch. Chance groaned and pulled away from the kiss.

"I don't think it's a good idea to do this here," he muttered. "What if…"

"You really need to _stop thinking_," Guerrero replied rubbing Chance's cock through the denim of his jeans. Chance groaned and made a half-hearted attempt to pull his hand away, but Guerrero was having none of it.

"Guerrero, don't…" he sighed, but Guerrero had already unfastened Chance's belt and was in the process of working his jeans open and shoving them down past his hips. He took Chance's cock in his hand and began stroking it back and forth.

"Guerrero," Chance moaned. "I can't… not here… the others…"

"You don't have to do anything, dude," Guerrero murmured. "I've got you."

Guerrero dropped to his knees and Chance gave a startled cry of surprise as he licked the length of his cock, from balls to tip.

"Fuck!"

Chance gave up his half-hearted resistance and ran his fingers through Guerrero's hair. His eyes rolled back and he surrendered to what Guerrero was doing to him. He had no idea if Guerrero had ever done this before, but the way he was teasing him by alternating between gentle lapping at the tip and long, firm licks to his shaft and balls was making him ache to the bone.

He cried out again when Guerrero took his cock deep into his mouth, applying just the right amount of suction and pressure to make Chance really start to lose control, balling his fists in Guerrero's hair, and starting to thrust into his mouth. Guerrero could have easily restrained him by pushing his hips back against the wall, but instead he merely rested his hands against him to make sure he didn't thrust too far and make him gag.

"Guerrero… oh fuck… I'm going to come…"

Chance tried to pull back, but Guerrero wouldn't let him. His hands were gripping Chance's hips tightly, encouraging him to keep fucking his mouth to the very end. Guerrero could feel the build up of tension as Chance's orgasm built up to breaking point, and he was ready when Chance groaned and shuddered, spilling himself into Guerrero's mouth. He let it slip down his throat and kept sucking and licking as Chance rode out the very end of his orgasm.

When he finally pulled away, Chance grunted and seemed to slide bonelessly down the wall until he was crouched in front of Guerrero. He gripped Guerrero's face between his slightly shaking hands and kissed him.

"I told you," Guerrero murmured, running his finger through Chance's hair. "I've got you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: Just for clarity, the events of the last chapter did not take place on the street! I'm assuming that the loading bay is a secured, enclosed recess inside the building where the team store their vehicles when not in use! **

* * *

Thanks to Guerrero's deliberate sabotage of the security cameras, Winston didn't know for sure what happened between him and Chance in the loading bay. But if he were a betting man he would have put money on there having been a physical altercation of some sort, judging from the fact that they were both suspiciously flushed and sweaty when they eventually returned to the office. Whatever Guerrero had said or done, he seemed to have gotten through to Chance, as he was looking a lot more alert and focused than he had since the incident at the shopping mall. He ran upstairs and changed into his sweats and even gave Winston a smile on the way past.

Chance and Guerrero spent most of the day in the old storeroom that served as Chance's gym, doing whatever passed as training to a couple of ex-assassins with time on their hands. As far as Winston could tell, it mostly consisted of them pummelling the crap out of the battered old punching bag that was one of the few things that Ilsa had left alone during the office renovations, interspersed with bouts of beating the crap out of each other.

Winston left them to it, but Ilsa seemed fascinated and also a little concerned by what they were doing. She stood in the doorway, watching them for a while, until Winston went to ask her if everything was alright.

"It astounds me that two people can subject each other to such punishment and still keep on going back for more," Ilsa said, flinching as Guerrero brought Chance crashing to the ground with a scissor-kick.

"It looks brutal," Winston agreed, "but these two have been doing this for a long time. They're actually being fairly cautious. It's highly unlikely that they'd do each other any serious damage."

"Is this really what they consider to be training?" Ilsa asked, as Chance twisted free from Guerrero's legs and rolled back to his feet.

Winston shrugged, "I suspect this is more a case of letting off some steam."

Ilsa turned away as the two men exchanged a flurry of blows and kicks that she felt sure would result in broken bones. Winston put his arm round her shoulders and gently steered her away from the open door.

"There's really no need for you to watch them fight like savages, Ilsa."

"No, I suppose not," Ilsa sighed.

Winston took her to the kitchen and sat her down with a coffee. From the way she sat there frowning at her mug, he could tell that she was still concerned about Chance.

"He'll be fine in a few days. Trust me," Winston said reassuringly.

"Oh, I trust you Mr Winston, it's just…" she hesitated for a moment. "Shouldn't we be offering Chance some kind of professional counselling? It doesn't seem right, leaving him to Guerrero's tender mercies."

Winston smiled. "I've been trying to get Chance to see a shrink for years, Ilsa. He won't hear of it."

"But leaving it to Guerrero to get him back on an even keel? Is that wise?"

Winston sat down opposite Ilsa and smoothed one hand over his head as he considered the best way to phrase what he had to say.

"Guerrero doesn't give a damn about much in this world, but if there's one person he cares about more than his own sorry hide, it's Chance. As much as I hate to admit it, he has a much better understanding as to what goes on in Chance's head than I do. Just because he doesn't seem to have any scruples of his own, it doesn't mean that he doesn't understand the mental anguish that Chance's sense of morality puts him through."

Ilsa looked doubtful.

"Hey," Winston said, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture, "I never said it made sense!"

"I just think there must be a better way for Chance to deal with his feelings," she said.

"Oh, I agree with you. But try telling that to Chance!"

* * *

After the out-pouring of raw aggression on the day that Guerrero confronted Chance in the loading bay, their training did settle down into something a bit more disciplined. Ilsa was relieved to find nothing more alarming than Guerrero spotting for Chance as he lifted weights on the bench in the corner of the storeroom when she looked in on them the following day.

Ilsa wondered, not for the first time, what she had gotten herself into by getting involved with Chance and his team. They didn't seem to function in the normal way, even at the most basic emotional level, and sometimes she felt as if she would be totally lost without Winston to guide her through the baffling process of dealing with Chance and Guerrero.

She did at least feel that she had some kind of handle on Chance's motivations: he was trying to make amends for his past misdeeds, but Guerrero? He seemed to have no problem with using violence and torture to get results, and he clearly never suffered the crisis of conscience that Chance had. She tried not to dwell on the question of what he did on his own time, and whether or not he adhered to Chance's policy of avoiding killing people. It was a mystery how Chance maintained a friendship with possibly the most violent and ruthless person she'd ever met without it conflicting with his personal mission to do something good with his life.

Ilsa had to concede that Guerrero did have his moments though. There were occasions when he would do something that was thoughtful, in his own odd way, but there was always something slightly sinister about it. He had opened a bar tab for Ames, but it had been in an establishment so notoriously dangerous that Ames would have had to be extremely foolish to go there alone. And then there was his gift of the sheaf of paper that he'd told her was the same kind that the US Treasury used to use, before it ran into supply issues. The implications of Guerrero being in possession of such an item were perfectly clear, and the paper still sat in the bottom drawer of her desk, as she wasn't entirely sure as to the legality of her using it.

Nothing about Guerrero was straight-forward.

* * *

"I understand the principle guys. I know it's all about levers and stuff, I'd just rather know how to kick some ass!"

"Forget it, dude. You'd have more luck trying to teach a goldfish. Their attention span is supposed to be a whole three seconds."

Ames glared at Guerrero sullenly. She'd been watching Chance and Guerrero spar all afternoon and she'd finally plucked up the courage to ask Chance to show her some moves, but unfortunately Guerrero had overheard her request. She'd nearly turned on her heel and marched right out of there when he'd laughed at her, but Chance seemed to think that teaching her some basic moves was a good idea, and he'd persuaded her to stay.

"Look, I don't need to know all that weird kung-fu shit that you guys do," she said to Chance. "I just want to be able to throw a decent punch without spraining my wrist!"

"But it's much more likely that you'd be attacked, rather than be the aggressor," Chance explained. "It's going to be far more useful for you to learn how to deal with someone trying to grab you."

"Oh, thanks! " Ames said. "I get to play the helpless little girl until one of you big strong men come and rescue me, is that it?"

"Pretty much," Guerrero muttered. Chance gave him a warning look.

"Ames, this isn't a sexism thing, I'm just trying to be realistic," Chance said patiently. "If you threw your best punch at a guy like me, all you're likely to do is piss him off. Your best option is to avoid confrontation, not initiate it."

"I guess," Ames sighed.

"So let's start with the basics. It's unlikely that you're going to have strength or size on your side, so it really comes down to getting your opponent off-balance and breaking free of his grasp."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it, run away…"

"I told you, dude. It's a waste of time trying to teach lil miss know-it-all," Guerrero said impatiently.

Chance put his hands on Ames' shoulders and turned her so her back was to him, then dropped one hand so he was only gripping one shoulder.

"Okay, so some one grabs you like this. What do you do?"

Ames tried driving her elbow backwards into Chance's stomach, but it had little effect on his muscular bulk.

"That might work if your attacker wasn't expecting you to fight back," Chance said. "Try again."

This time Ames tried to kick back against Chance's shins, but he always seemed to anticipate her moves.

"You see the problem?" he asked.

"Yeah, I guess," Ames said.

"You can't make me let go just by random flailing about. You need to use my hold on you to your advantage. Guerrero?"

Guerrero glared at them but reluctantly stood behind Chance and put one hand on his right shoulder, as if he were attacking him. Chance twisted round, throwing his right arm backwards and over Guerrero's attacking arm, locking it against his body so they were face to face with Chance holding Guerrero in an arm lock.

"I now have him off-balance, he's let go of my shoulder and I still have one hand free to jab my fingers in his eyes or to drive the heel of my hand into his nose."

"Now that's more like it!" Ames said, perking up at the idea of poking an attacker's eyes out. "Show me that again, slower this time."

Guerrero grumbled about being used as an attack dummy, but he begrudgingly went along with it. Ames surprised them by picking up the techniques pretty quickly and Chance even promised to show her a few throws next time.

After an hour or so, Chance could see that Guerrero's patience with the project was wearing wafer-thin so they called it a day.

"Same time tomorrow?" Ames asked hopefully.

"Sure. Why not?" Chance said, much to Guerrero's annoyance.

"You know she's going to be even more unbearable now," Guerrero said once Ames had left.

"It can't hurt for her to know how to take care of herself," Chance replied.

"No, but I'm willing to bet she's dying to try out those moves you showed for real. We so don't need her getting any big ideas in the middle of a job."

"I'm sticking strictly to the defensive stuff for now. I'm sure she won't cause too much trouble with that."

"I hope you're right, dude."

"Want to grab a beer?" Chance tried to keep his voice light and casual, but the truth was he really didn't want Guerrero to go. Since the confrontation in the loading bay, and the impromptu blow job, they'd had little time together alone away from prying eyes. Both Winston and Ilsa had been keeping a close watch on Chance. He knew it was because they were worried about him, but he was beginning to crave a little privacy. He hadn't even had the chance to talk to Guerrero about what was going on between them, and he was starting to worry that they never would, that maybe the whole thing was over just as quickly as it had begun.

"I can't," Guerrero said. "I've got stuff I really need to take care of and it can't wait. Rain check?"

"Yeah, of course," Chance said turning away, trying and failing to hide his disappointment.

Guerrero caught his hand and pulled him back towards him.

"Chance, I…"

Whatever he was going to say, Chance never got to hear it. Winston stormed into the room and Guerrero hastily let go of Chance's hand.

"What the hell have you two maniacs been teaching Ames?" Winston roared. "She had her earphones in and when I tapped her on the shoulder she damn near poked my eyes out!"

"Told you, dude," Guerrero said with a smirk, before walking out and leaving Chance to explain Ames' actions to Winston.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: This fic seems to be growing an actual plot. How did that happen? Damn plot bunnies!**

* * *

It stung when Guerrero slipped away with a smirk on his face. Calming Winston down was a simple enough task, and one that Chance was used to, but the mixed messages he'd been getting from Guerrero over the last week were a lot harder to deal with.

In the loading bay Guerrero had overwhelmed him physically and emotionally, and there had been no doubt that their relationship was moving in to something much deeper than friendship, but since then Guerrero had definitely been avoiding any situation where they could really be alone together. It felt like not only was Guerrero distancing himself from what they'd done, he was also in danger of withdrawing his friendship too. They'd spent the last few days together sparring and working out, but there had been little in the way of their usual banter and Guerrero seemed detached from everything but the need to push Chance to his physical limits. Guerrero had succeeded in dragging him out of his funk but Chance was beginning to worry it was at the expense of their friendship.

"Chance?"

He realised with a start that Winston had been talking to him and he hadn't heard a single word he'd said.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I said: we've got a case."

"So I take you've all decided that I'm fit to work again?" Chance said folding his arms and giving Winston a put-upon look.

"Oh no, I still think your ready for the funny farm. This is Ilsa's idea."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Any time."

* * *

"Chance, you're looking…"

"Sweaty?" Chance said, smiling at the way Ilsa seemed to be slightly flustered by his appearance in her office.

"I was going to say 'much better', but as you brought it up, you could use a shower," she said wrinkling her nose.

"Winston said we have a case."

"Yes, we do. Of a sort. It's a straight-forward matter. More of a favour for a friend of mine than a real case. I thought it would be something to ease you back into things, and of course you'd be doing me a huge favour…"

"Cut to the chase, Ilsa. What's the job?"

Ilsa paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to take offence at Chance's interruption. He gave her a smile and tilted his head to one side to indicate that he was listening and she sighed. Sometimes it was hard to remain aloof when he turned on the charm like that.

"I have a friend who has just been through a nasty divorce…"

"If this is a setup Ilsa, you can stop right there. I'm not interested."

"Let me finish!" Ilsa said. "She has been through a nasty divorce and over the last few weeks she has been receiving anonymous death threats."

"From the ex?"

"It seems more than likely, yes. At first she dismissed them as nothing more than her ex-husband playing games, but over the last couple of days the threats have become much more specific."

"Has she gone to the police?"

"Yes, but aside from having a couple of plain clothes officers sitting in a car outside her building, there seems to be little they can do to help. There's nothing to tie the death threats to the ex-husband, so unless they actually catch him in the act…"

"Their hands are tied," Chance said. "You said the threats had become more specific. How so?"

"It's her birthday and her parents are throwing her a party tonight. It was supposed to be a surprise but when she received this… well it rather let the cat out of the bag."

Ilsa pushed a plain black envelope across her desk to Chance. He opened it and examined the contents. It was a black edged obituary notice for Alison Mcvey.

"Wait, your friend is Alison Mcvey? The actress?"

Ilsa nodded.

"So that would make her ex-husband…"

"Her one time co-star and former bodyguard, Joseph Seymour. Read the rest of the card."

The card had tomorrow's date printed in the corner and it was an obituary that detailed how Allison Mcvey was executed in front of the guests at her surprise birthday party. Not only did the sender of the card spell out when and where he planned to kill the actress, it also made it clear that they had detailed information about the party.

"Whoever sent this knows the time, the date, the location of the party, and almost certainly the guest list too." Chance said, placing the card back in the envelope and handing it back to Ilsa. "If her ex-husband is behind this, he'll must be familiar with the house and any security measures they have in place. The best thing to do is to cancel the party."

"I know," Ilsa sighed, "but she won't hear of it. She hasn't told her family about the threats and as far as they're concerned the party is still a surprise. Things got so ugly when the press got hold of the details of their break-up, Joseph made some terrible accusations, but her parents stood by her through it all. They've been through so much already, Alison doesn't want to take this party away from them. She's finally free of that vile man and she won't allow him to control her life like this."

"If she's really going to insist on going ahead with the party, she must at least warn her family so they can increase security."

"Alison doesn't think that will be necessary. There are going to be a number of very high-profile guests in attendance so security will already be extremely tight. Besides, they will already be on the look-out for Joseph in case he's heard about the party and is planning to gatecrash it."

"The party starts in less than three hours. What do you want me to do?"

"I promised Alison that I wouldn't tell her parents about the threats on one condition. I need you to go undercover as her date. Her parents can't know that you're there to protect her from Joseph. She wants the threat kept quiet until after the party."

"So, bottom line: you want me to get spruced up, attend a celebrity party and be the arm-candy for your seriously hot actress friend?" Chance asked with an amused little smile.

"Well yes, I suppose you could put it like that…"

"Okay, count me in," Chance said.

"I will be attending the party as a guest and Winston will accompany me." Ilsa ignored the curious look Chance gave her and pressed on. "Ames will blend in with the catering crew and Guerrero will monitor the security footage from the surveillance van. Between us we should be able to keep Alison safe, and her parents need not know."

"You got Winston on the guest list then?"

"No, he will be my date," Ilsa said, giving Chance a look that dared him to make an issue out of it.

"Guerrero has already left. He told me he's got business to take care of tonight."

"Ames should be waiting for him by his car. She'll tell him he's needed."

Chance laughed. "I wouldn't pin your hopes on Ames talking him into anything!"

"Normally I'd agree with you on that. However, I think once Guerrero realises you're going to be in the field again, he'll want to keep an eye on you."

Chance shrugged, feeling a little awkward about the idea that Ilsa thought Guerrero would drop everything to watch over him, and also a little concerned that maybe she was mistaken.

"I'd better go get cleaned up," he said.

Ilsa wrinkled her nose again. "Please do!"

* * *

In the days since their encounter in the loading bay, Guerrero had avoided being alone in private with Chance. As they trained in the old storeroom, he took care to see that the door was always open so there was always the chance that someone could walk in on them. Whenever he caught Chance watching him with that speculative look that made Guerrero's skin burn with the memory of Chance's body naked beneath him, he pretended not to notice. He pushed them to work harder in the hope that physical exhaustion would take over from where self-control was threatening to fail.

Guerrero had only meant to get Chance through another rough patch, get him back on his feet again, but somehow in trying to help, he had exposed a dangerous new weakness in both of them. His friendship with Chance had always been a vulnerability of sorts, but it had been manageable. What was happening between them now was anything but.

Whilst Chance had been depressed and distracted, Guerrero had been able to maintain the illusion of having some kind of control over the situation, but as Chance's mood improved and he regained his focus, the fragile new balance shifted. Things had got way too complicated between them recently and Guerrero could feel the whole situation spiralling beyond his control. Guerrero hated not being in control.

He should have known better than to cross that line into a physical relationship with Chance, and he should definitely have known that it would lead to something far more complicated than just sex. But now it was too late, and actual feelings were involved, his own goddamn feelings. It was bad enough that every time Chance reached out to him and he pulled away he would see that hurt look on his face, but what was worse was that Guerrero wanted nothing more than to give in to him.

No good could ever come of getting involved with Chance. Guerrero avoided romantic relationships for very good reasons. Caring about someone like that inevitably painted a bull's-eye on their back, and although if anyone could handle that Chance could, Guerrero wasn't willing to take the risk.

Indulging his feelings for Chance would only lead to trouble, and things had already gone too far. He had no choice but fight to create some distance between them, however painful that would be.

Guerrero was lost in thought as he stepped out of the elevator, so when Ames lurched towards him, flushed and slightly out of breath from having taken the stairs two at a time, he almost punched her out of sheer reflex.

"Woah! Don't hit the messenger!"

"What do you want, Ames?" Guerrero said impatiently.

"We've got case!"

"I'm happy for you. Tell me about it tomorrow," he said reaching for his keys.

"No! Chance is going undercover tonight!"

Guerrero froze. If he turned back it would be obvious that his weak excuse for avoiding having a beer with Chance was as pathetic as it sounded. But without knowing what the job entailed, he couldn't gauge what kind of danger Chance would be facing. He seemed to be back on form, but could he really risk it?

"Fine," was all that Guerrero could force out between gritted teeth.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: It's funny how inspiration strikes sometimes. The whole business with the earpieces in the first part of this chapter came about after I fell asleep with the crime channel on and the voices on the TV worked their way into my dream. As for Ames' poor choice of footwear... why do the women in action shows always wear such ridiculous shoes? Give me a solid pair of biker boots any day! Much easier to run in that high heels, they don't get stuck in vents, drains or subway lines and they'd be good for kicking people in the face. Just a thought.**

* * *

Chance couldn't deny it; Alison Mcvey was ever bit as breath-takingly beautiful in the flesh as she was on the big screen. Her trademark auburn hair was swept up in an elegant cascade of curls that exposed her delicate neck and drew attention to her slightly too round green eyes. In an industry that always had a glut of interchangeable, near-identical blonde actresses, Alison Mcvey stood out as a striking natural beauty, and despite all the gory details of her personal life being fodder for the tabloid press for months now, her star was very much on the rise. Chance could see why.

Ilsa hurriedly made the introductions in the back room of the restaurant where Alison would 'accidentally' bump into her parents who would then invite her back to their home for 'drinks'.

"Alison, this is my business associate, Christopher Chance. He will be at your side for the whole evening to ensure that if Joseph is foolish enough to try something, you will be protected at all times."

"Mr Chance, thank you so much for agreeing to help me, and at such short notice too!"

"I'm only too happy to help, Miss Mcvey," Chance said, turning on the charm and giving her a confident smile. "But I do work with a cover, so you'll need to call me Matthew King. We met at a charity event three weeks ago and this is our second date."

"Of course," Alison replied. "Matthew King. I will remember that. And what do you do for a living, Matthew King?"

"I'm in real estate," Chance said, privately amused by the way the young actress seemed to be approaching the evening's deception as an acting role.

"Is there anything else I need to know?" she asked.

"It's only our second date so no one can reasonably expect us to know each other very well just yet," Chance explained. "All you really need to know is that my team and I will keep you safe. I need to be able to see you at all times, and if anything - and I mean anything at all - seems suspicious or out of the ordinary, you must let me know immediately."

"Of course, Matthew," she replied, smiling.

"I really must leave for the party now," Ilsa said, satisfied that the necessary introductions had been made. "It wouldn't do to run into your parents now, would it? I'll leave you in Mr Chance's capable hands. Or should that be Mr King's capable hands?"

"Ilsa dear, you're babbling," Alison said with a genuinely affectionate smile. "We'll see you at the party later."

Ilsa left and a waiter led them to a private table towards the rear of the restaurant. Chance guessed that the secluded table was reserved for guests like Alison Mcvey who required a little more discretion than the average customer, but it suited their needs well. No one could approach them without running the gauntlet of the busy, crowded restaurant where Alison's rather conspicuous police protective detail sat monitoring the door. Behind them was an emergency exit, which only opened from the inside, should they need a fast exit, and Guerrero was patched into the security feed from the restaurant itself as well as the traffic cameras for the surrounding area. Alison was about as safe as she could be in a public restaurant, so there was no reason why they couldn't enjoy their meal.

"How do you know Ilsa?" Chance asked.

"Well, we actually did meet at a charity event," Alison smiled. "It was at a fundraiser for an after school drama project for underprivileged kids."

"_Goddamn, motherfucking useless pieces of shit!"_

Chance tried to concentrate on listening to Alison explain how she had become involved with the Marshall Pucci Foundation, but the voices coming through his earpiece were becoming increasingly loud.

"_Mrs Pucci, you are a vision!"_

"_Why thank you, Mr Winston! You are looking rather dapper yourself!"_

"_Stupid cock-sucker Jimmy Choo! I'm going to be fucking crippled by the end of the night!"_

"_Quit bitching Ames. No one asked you to wear those ridiculous things."_

"_Yeah, well I didn't know I was going to have to be a fucking waitress tonight, did I?"_

Chance smiled politely as Alison talked, but the bickering between Guerrero and Ames in his earpiece was making it impossible to make out much of what she was saying. For a while he could get away with the odd nod and smile, but eventually there reached a point when Alison was looking at him as if she were waiting for a reply to a question he hadn't even heard her ask.

"I'm sorry Alison, will you please excuse me for a moment? I seem to be having a small technical hitch."

"Of course," she replied, looking a little bemused.

Chance turned away from her for a moment, but it was a fairly useless gesture as she could still hear him as he hissed at Guerrero through the comms link.

"Guerrero! What the hell? You guys are deafening me here!"

"_Sorry bro. Having a little trouble adjusting the levels. Winston set up the comms rig tonight and it's a friggin' mess."_

"_Hey! Don't you blame this on me, I…"_

Winston's voice cut out.

"_Any better?"_

"Yeah a bit. I can still hear Ames complaining about her shoes though."

"_I'm working on it dude."_

"Just so long as I can hear everyone when we get to the party."

"_Shouldn't be a problem. And Chance?"_

"What?"

"_Try the lamb. It's awesome."_

Guerrero leaned back in his seat and adjusted the volume levels on Chance's earpiece so that Ames' constant muttered complaints were slightly less deafening. He could kid himself that he was messing with Chance's earpiece in order to test how well he could function under pressure with a constant nagging distraction, but why bother lying to himself? Chance had a history of hitting it off with female clients, and there was no reason why Alison Mcvey's fake date with Matthew King couldn't lead to a real date with Christopher Chance. That thought made Guerrero… uncomfortable. He refused to acknowledge the bitter discomfort he was feeling as he watched Chance charm the beautiful actress as anything other than a physical feeling. He couldn't afford to recognise the emotion as jealousy, not even in the privacy of his own mind, not when they were in the middle of a case.

Guerrero knew who Alison Mcvey was, even before Ilsa dumped the case on the team at the last minute. Hell, just about everyone in the western world was familiar with her name, and when her last movie came out it was impossible not to walk past a billboard or pick up a magazine without seeing her wide-eyed and pouting face staring back. Her career had been on hiatus for a while, as she went through her divorce, but thanks to her now ex-husband's numerous kiss-and-tell stories, barely a week went by without her being on the cover of one publication or another.

The lurid stories that Joseph Seymour had fed the tabloids were just the usual Hollywood mud-slinging: drugs, diva-ish behaviour and tales of affairs, lesbian and otherwise. Guerrero neither knew nor cared how much truth there was to the ex-husbands claims, but watching the beautiful young woman demurely picking at a green leaf salad opposite Chance in the restaurant, he was inclined to believe that they were lies. He could picture her using some less-than-legal diet pills, maybe even abusing a few prescribed sleeping pills or tranquilisers, but the stories of coke fuelled orgies seemed most unlikely.

Joseph Seymour had been a nobody until the studio hired him as security and assigned him to watch over Alison when she filmed on location in Thailand. Romance had seemed to bloom between them, and they got married on their return to the States. Alison even managed to get him a part in one of her movies, but that was when their two year marriage began to fall apart. Guerrero hadn't followed the story through choice, but Ames' had followed every lurid detail, and as much as he tried to tune her out as she read aloud the latest scandals, some of the information had stuck. Eventually Guerrero managed to train her out of reading him whatever she considered to be newsworthy by simply tossing the offending material out of the nearest window, a method that only achieved partial success until the day he tossed her Kindle out of the window of the Eldo.

Guerrero was amused to see that Chance did actually order the lamb, and watching him eat was starting to make him feel hungry. He reached for his bag, never once taking his eyes off the screen, and pulled out a sandwich. He didn't really expect Seymour to make a move whilst Alison was still at the restaurant. The fake obituary had made it pretty clear that he wanted an audience when he killed his ex-wife. If the threat was genuine, and they had to assume for the client's sake that it was, Seymour was not concerned about being caught. Judging from the way he'd sold his story to anyone who'd listen, Seymour seemed hell-bent on achieving fame at any cost. Any hope of an acting career of his own had evaporated once he dragged Alison Mcvey's name through the dirt, so perhaps he was planning to kill her to at least achieve notoriety, seeing as fame had escaped his grasp.

Guerrero had killed for many reasons, well mostly for money but there had been other reasons too, but killing someone just to get noticed was not one of them. He didn't subscribe to Chance's 'nobody deserves to die' philosophy, but the idea of killing someone publicly to get the world's attention and then either go out in a hail of bullets, or worse sit around on death row milking every last bit of fame you could, was something that Guerrero found distasteful. Not to mention a waste of a smoking hot actress.

Guerrero sighed and took another bite of his sandwich. What the hell was wrong with him? He could certainly appreciate Alison's soft curves and the way her simple but stylish green dress clung to them in all the right places, but it was the image of Chance crooked little half-smile that held his attention. Chance was in his element, putting Alison at her ease but still discreetly monitoring their surroundings for any sign of trouble. But more than that, they looked good together.

_Isn't this what Chance really wants? What he deserves? _Guerrero thought. _He should have a gorgeous woman at his side, putting a smile on his face._

It was a far cry from what Guerrero had to offer him, a sneaky blow-job in the loading bay and a whole host of questions about his sexual identity. Guerrero had a fairly flexible approach to his own sexuality, but until recent events Chance had been every bit the ladies' man. Even if what had gone on between them was more than just a bit of sexual experimentation on Chance's part, how could Guerrero compete with a lifetime of heterosexuality? Chance's good looks and easy charm meant that he had no shortage of female attention, and Guerrero had noticed that even Ilsa would throw the odd wistful look Chance's way.

Eventually Alison's parents showed up at the restaurant and insisted that she and her date must join them for drinks. Guerrero tried to ignore the rush of relief that the part of the evening that Chance would spend alone with Alison was finally over, and quickly restored the settings of Chance's earpiece to a level at which he could hear everyone without being deafened.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: I've taken the advice of my lovely reviewers and allowed the plot bunnies to run free with this one. I'd only envisaged a three or four part smutty slash piece but then a plot started to happen!**

* * *

"_Ames! Do you think you could stop cursing? You're no use to us if you get kicked out of the party!"_

"Relax Winston, I'm in the ladies restroom. No one can hear me but you guys."

Ames looked down at her footwear in despair. The black snakeskin, lace-up ankle boots with four and a half inch heels would have been perfect for strutting her stuff at a bar and then maybe a nightclub.

She had treated herself to the $1000 pair of Jimmy Choos when she got her first pay-check from Ilsa. It had been the first honest-to-God pay-check she'd ever received, and she'd decided to blow it on something to remember. Walking into that boutique and slapping down the cash on the counter as she popped her gum in the face of the snooty shop attendant had been a total rush, and she'd wished that Brody had been there to see her do it.

Ames knew they weren't the most comfortable boots to wear for any length of time, and she'd even worn sneakers all day to give her feet a rest before she slipped them on for the night. Had she met up with her friends as planned, she would have had to have spent half the evening sitting down to avoid getting blisters the size of golf balls, but there was no chance of her being able to do that whilst waitressing at Alison Mcvey's party. Acquiring a uniform that allowed her to blend in with the other waitresses had been as simple as breaking into the catering van and helping herself, but she was stuck with her own footwear.

"_What's taking you so long? Get the camera hooked up and get your ass out of that bathroom!" _

"It's not that easy Guerrero! How am I supposed to attach a button cam to a uniform with no freakin' buttons? What do you want me to do? Stick it to my face and pretend it's a beauty spot?"

"_Improvise."_

Her uniform consisted of a figure-hugging black shift dress that was fastened by a zipper up one side. Apart from the ridiculously lacy apron that she was expected to wear, there was nothing to break the line of the dress, and therefore nowhere to conceal the button cam.

"Improvise, improvise," she muttered to herself. "Wait! I've got it!"

She slipped one of her earrings out and carefully used it to work a tiny hole in the fabric of her dress over where her bra-strap met the left cup. Ensuring the tiny button shaped camera was turned away from her at all times, she lined it up behind the miniscule hole in her dress.

"How's that?" she asked.

"_Upside-down."_

She rolled her eyes and readjusted the camera. "Now?"

"_Yeah, that will have to do."_

Ames spat out her gum and used it to stick the camera to her bra-strap and hold the fabric of the dress in place. It wasn't perfect, but as long as she didn't wave her arms around, it should hold.

* * *

Alison's look of surprise and squeals of delight when her parents led her out to the candle-lit gazebo in the garden to a resounding chorus of 'Happy Birthday' seemed a little overdone to Guerrero's cynical eye. Chance, however, was convincing as the clueless date who suddenly found himself in the middle of a star-studded celebrity party, and he stayed at her side as she worked the crowd, greeting each guest as if they were a long-lost friend. The way Chance kept looking around could easily be mistaken for nervousness on his part, but Guerrero knew that he was really mapping the layout of the garden, locating the security cameras and staff, and generally familiarising himself with the party and its guests.

When Alison downed her fourth glass of champagne inside an hour, Guerrero found himself reviewing his earlier assumption that she wasn't likely to be the party girl her ex made her out to be.

"Chance, you keeping an eye on how much she's drinking?"

"_Yeah, but I could use a little help here."_

"Ames, how about keeping Alison's glass full? Make sure you're serving her Champagne that's watered down with some Perrier," Guerrero said.

"_I'm on it, G. Or at least I will be if I can get past this guy with the wandering hands."_

Guerrero checked the feed from Ames' button cam and was just in time to see the over-friendly man receive an elbow to the stomach and then yelp and limp away.

"_I'm sooo sorry. Was that your foot?"_

Guerrero smirked. Ames was obviously putting those ridiculous heels to good use. He had over a dozen different camera angles to monitor, but so far there was little to report. The walkie-talkie tuned into the frequency the security staff were using crackled into life at regular intervals as they each checked in, but they seemed to have nothing to report either. Winston and Ilsa were discreetly patrolling the garden, often stopping when Ilsa was approached by people she knew. She kept the pleasantries short but polite, and any time someone tried to draw her further into conversation, Winston was there to help extricate her.

Guerrero was beginning to wonder if the whole thing was just a hoax and a complete waste of the team's time.

* * *

Alison Mcvey was turning out to be quite a handful, once she'd got a few drinks inside her. Chance soon regretted not pressing her to order something more substantial than a green salad at the restaurant earlier. At least if she'd eaten a decent meal there would be something to soak up all the champagne she was knocking back. She certainly wasn't behaving as if she were afraid for her life.

"Oh, Matthew! You're so serious!" she laughed, dragging Chance on to the makeshift dance floor in front of the band. "Dance with me! It _is _my birthday!"

Thankfully the band was a trendy, indie outfit, all acoustic guitars and tambourines rather than a full scale rock band, so Chance could still make out the voices of the team in his earpiece. Normally he would consider slow dancing with a stunning young woman as one of the perks of the job, but tonight he was preoccupied with the knowledge that Guerrero was watching him. Alison clung to him tightly, making it very clear that she was intent on much more than dancing, but Chance's limbs felt leaden and uncooperative.

"_Oh my god! Chance is slow dancing with Alison Mcvey!" _Ames cooed via his earpiece. _"Chance! You should so ask her out!"_

"_Go for it, dude. She's definitely into you."_

Guerrero's comment caught him completely off-guard, and for a second he stopped dancing. Why would Guerrero say that? Was it just because it was the kind of comment the others expected him to make, or was he really trying to encourage him to hit on Alison?

"Is there a problem?" Alison asked, looking only mildly concerned.

"No," Chance said, forcing his feet to move again in time with the music. "Just my team checking in. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm not worried," she said, nestling into Chance's chest as they swayed in time to the music. "I've got you."

Her words took Chance straight back to the loading bay, and the way Guerrero had murmured, "I told you. I've got you." in his ear. Chance spent his whole life playing one role or another, but nothing compared to how dishonest he felt dancing with Alison when all he could think about was Guerrero.

As the band wound down their set, Alison's parents stepped up onto the stage and her mother took the microphone. She stood there for a moment, waiting to get everyone's full attention as the people on the dance floor shuffled to a halt. There were still people around the edge of the gazebo who were too wrapped up in their conversations to notice the Mcveys on the stage, so she tapped a long manicured nail against the microphone a few times until her audience settled down.

"I'd like to thank you all for joining us to celebrate the birthday of our darling daughter, Alison." She paused as the guests clapped and some of the more inebriated ones whooped and whistled. Mr Mcvey leaned into the microphone and asked, "Alison, would you please step up on to the stage?"

Alison giggled as her guests cheered her on, and she dragged Chance onto the stage with her. Mrs Mcvey gave the band a nod and they began to play 'Happy Birthday'. Chance wasn't particularly happy with being dragged up there, but he tried to use his new vantage point to get a good look at the crowd and check for anything or anyone suspicious. The crowd parted and an enormous, elaborately decorated birthday cake was carried up towards the stage by two men in chef whites. He quickly dismissed them as genuine members of the catering staff and went back to scanning the crowd. Alison stood at the front of the stage and made a great show of leaning down and blowing out the single silver candle that sat on top of the cake amidst the flowers and hummingbirds delicately crafted out of sugar.

As the guests cheered, Chance saw that the security guard at the rear of the gazebo had his radio pressed to his ear and was reaching for his gun as he backed out of the doorway. Before he could do anything, Alison threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into a messy kiss, much to the delight of her guests. He could just about make out the sound of Guerrero cursing through his earpiece. As soon as he managed to disentangle himself from Alison's embrace, he pressed his hand to his ear.

"Guerrero what's going on?"

"_Just lost the feed on the Mcvey's cameras."_

* * *

The screens in the surveillance van cut out just as Alison and Chance kissed, and for split second it felt as though Guerrero's brain was just cutting out what he didn't want to see. He then realised that all of the screens had cut out, not just the one with the image of Alison kissing Chance, and the radio was buzzing with the frantic voices of the security staff. Only Ames' button cam seemed to be up and working.

"_Guerrero what's going on?"_

"Just lost the feed on the Mcvey's cameras."

He tore off the headset he'd been wearing and replaced it with an earpiece, and grabbed his gun, mentally running through his options. What he wanted to do was to find Chance and be there to back him up, but for all the cameras to cut out at once like that, it suggested that Seymour was in the Mcvey house, so heading him off there would mean that he never even got close to Chance and the client.

Guerrero tried to push the image of Alison Mcvey and Chance from his mind as he threw open the doors to the surveillance van and hit the ground at a dead run. He'd gone maybe ten feet before he felt something smash into his head, knocking him to the ground and sending his gun skittering away from him. His vision began to dim as he lay stunned, face down on the asphalt of the access road behind the McVey property, and it was with sheer willpower alone that Guerrero managed to drag himself back from the brink of unconsciousness.

All he could see of his assailant were his black leather boots, denim-clad legs and the baseball bat hanging from one hand. Guerrero's ears were ringing from the force of the blow to his head, and although the pain had yet to kick in, there was a sense of pressure as his skull seemed to throb in time with his racing heart beat. There was no time to curse the stupidity of charging head first out of the van without first checking his surroundings, he would berate himself later. He held perfectly still as the black boots stepped closer, and waited until the baseball bat disappeared from view as the man brought it up for another swing at his head before he moved. He kicked out at the man's knee with enough force to bend it back with a sickening crunch, and as the man screamed in pain and began to topple over, Guerrero lashed out with a sweeping kick that knocked the man's uninjured leg out from under him.

The man in the black leather boots hit the ground hard not two feet away from Guerrero, cursing and screaming. Guerrero tried to push himself back up onto his feet, but he didn't get much further than getting to his hands and knees before his vision began to dim again and the world seemed to lurch sideways. He shook his head, trying to regain his equilibrium and fighting the need to vomit. He glanced over at the man in the black boots and realised that his assailant wasn't Joseph Seymour. His tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth, but he had to warn Chance that Seymour wasn't acting alone. He was struggling to find the necessary words when he saw the man reach for a seven inch combat knife from the sheath tucked into his boot.

The only sound Guerrero managed was a groan before the man rolled towards him with the knife. He lunged towards him with a clumsy overhand stabbing motion aimed at his neck, but Guerrero deflected the blade with his forearm and simultaneously kicked at the man's shattered knee. The man crashed into him, knocking him on to his back, but somehow Guerrero kept the momentum going enough to roll them across the ground until he was on top of the guy, twisting the knife out of his grasp. He only just managed to disarm him before another wave of nausea and dizziness hit. The man punched him in the side of the face and stars danced in front of Guerrero's eyes as he grappled to maintain control of the knife. He could barely see as he twisted the knife so it was point down over the man's chest. His hands felt slippery with blood, and he wondered for a second whose blood it was, before he realised it was dripping from his own arm. He must have caught the edge of the blade when he had deflected the knife.

His mind was wandering and his head was throbbing as his vision kept fading in and out. If he didn't end the fight soon he was certain to black out. He used the only advantage he had left to him, driving his knee into the man's injured leg and dropping his full body weight on to the knife held between them. The renewed pain in his leg was enough to make the man relax his grip on the knife slightly, and with Guerrero's body weight behind it, the blade slid between his ribs. Guerrero rolled away from the man, noting with some satisfaction that the fast, raspy breathing and the red foam coming from the man's mouth indicated that he'd pierced his lung. Without medical treatment, he'd be dead in minutes.

Guerrero lay on his side and fought the rising darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. He still had to warn Chance that Seymour was not working alone.

"Not… alone…" Guerrero said, forcing the words out as he felt himself fading away.

"_Guerrero? What's happening?"_

The sound of Chance's voice spurred him on to make one last effort to speak. "Seymour got….help…"

"_Answer me! Guerrero?"_

The last thing Guerrero heard was Chance calling his name.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note: Sorry Ced, sometimes a cake is just a cake! Keep those lovely reviews coming!**

* * *

Chance barely managed to catch Guerrero's warning over the sound of the party guests cheering and calling out for him to give Alison another kiss. He heard enough to know that Guerrero was injured and in trouble, but he also knew that he couldn't leave Alison's side. Winston and Ilsa were outside the gazebo and had been able to hear Guerrero much more clearly. Winston was already barking orders at Ames, telling her to get back to the van and help Guerrero. For once, Ames didn't argue.

"_Chance! Did you hear that? Seymour isn't working alone! He's cut the security feed! Ames has gone to check on Guerrero but we need to get Alison out of here!"_

Winston's voice sounded like it was coming from the other end of a long tunnel rather than from the tiny device tucked in his ear. Chance was struggling to focus on his voice over the noise of the party, and the feeling of dread that was gnawing him away from the inside at the thought of Guerrero being in trouble. Reluctantly, he pushed his feelings aside and let his professional instincts take over.

"No, we're staying here," Chance said. "We don't know where Seymour is or how many people he has backing him up. It's too risky. We stick to the plan. Let him come to us."

"What's going on?" Mrs Mcvey demanded.

Alison shook her head, trying to signal to Chance that he shouldn't tell her mother about the threat.

"Did you say Seymour was here?" Alison's father demanded, frowning.

Chance quickly weighed up the pros and cons of tell the Mcveys what was going on. Alison may be easier to manage if he kept his mouth shut, but sooner or later he was going to have to draw his gun, and it was wiser to make sure that the Mcveys knew up front that he was there to protect their daughter, rather than having to explain it when Seymour made his move. He ushered them over to the side of the stage, much to the disappointment of the rowdy guests. Fortunately when the catering staff began removing the decorations and cutting into what turned out to be a rich chocolate cake, the guests seemed to lose interest in Chance and the Mcveys.

"I'm not Alison's date, I'm her bodyguard," Chance explained. "Alison hired me and my team to protect her from Joseph Seymour. We have reason to believe he will make an attempt on her life tonight, here at the party."

Alison was livid. She slapped Chance across the face and began to cry. Strangely though, her parents didn't look that surprised. Mrs Mcvey put a comforting arm around her daughter's shoulders and exchanged a worried look with her husband.

"You knew," Chance said.

"We received a… card this morning," Mr Mcvey said.

"An obituary notice for Alison," Chance said.

"She doesn't need to know that!" Mrs Mcvey hissed, trying to cover Alison's ears.

"It's okay, mom," she sniffed, pulling her mother's hands away from her ears. "I got one too. That's why Mr Chance is here."

To Chance's surprise, Mr Mcvey pulled a small calibre gun from a concealed holster beneath his jacket.

"Please, put that away!" Chance said. "If your guests see a gun it's likely to cause a panic!"

Reluctantly, Mr Mcvey tucked the weapon back out of sight.

"Seymour is here and he's not alone," Chance said, sounding a lot calmer than he felt. "Do you have any idea who could be helping him?"

Alison nodded.

"Who are they? This is very important, Alison. I need to know how many people we're dealing with."

"Joseph always had a little gang of friends he hung out with," she explained. "Not a real gang, just hangers-on. I used to joke about them being his entourage…"

"How many, Alison?"

She shrugged. "It varied. They came and went, but there were always three guys that were always around. The others just showed up when there were parties or when they wanted… something."

Drugs, money, the kind of women you could pay by the hour. Chance could fill in the blanks himself.

"Winston, it looks like we're dealing with Seymour plus at least three more guys."

As soon as the words left Chance's mouth, two gunshots rang out in rapid succession. The effect was immediate as the guests went into full-scale panic, some running for the exits, others diving under the tables, and few froze in terror until they were dragged to the ground by their companions.

Chance grabbed Alison's wrist and dragged her to the back of the stage, relying on her parents to have the good sense to follow. He pushed her to the floor and took the knife that he kept strapped to his ankle and cut through the duct tape that was holding down the wiring for the PA system. As he pulled the tape away it revealed a narrow crack between two of the flooring panels of the stage. He slipped the knife between them and levered one of the panels up. There wasn't much space beneath the stage, but given the lack of cover in the gazebo, it was the best he could do. He shoved Alison towards the hole.

"Stay down there and don't move!"

"But my parents…" Alison protested as Chance helped her climb down.

"Winston, what's going on?" he asked ignoring Alison's pleas.

"_It looks like a gunman just took out the protective detail!"_

Chance swore. He hadn't expected the two plainclothes cops who were supposed to be monitoring the arrival of the guests from the house to be much of an asset anyway, but he'd hoped they'd at least provide back up for the Mcveys' private security.

There was a second flurry of gunfire from outside the gazebo, and Chance could see the muzzle flash light up the canvas near the entrance. Alison's father seemed determined to stand his ground, facing the gunfire with his gun pointed towards the doorway, but his wife was pulling at his sleeve and begging him to hide.

"I'm not letting that bastard lay a finger on my little girl!"

"Please Henry! We need to hide!"

Chance grabbed Mr Mcvey's shoulder. "Sir, I need you to watch the back exit, to make sure no one circles round behind us! Can you do that for me?"

He stared at the front of the gazebo for a moment, before nodding his head in agreement and dropping down to ground level behind the stage.

"Ma'am? You need to follow your husband!"

With the Mcvey's tucked safely out of sight, Chance jumped down in front of the stage and took cover behind an upturned table.

"Ames! Have you found Guerrero?"

"_Yes! He's by the van, but I can't wake him up!"_

"Has he been shot? Is he breathing?"

"_Yes, he's breathing. There's a guy with a knife in his chest too! It looks like he went after Guerrero with a baseball bat!"_

_He's breathing… He's alive… _Chance tried to hold on to that thought.

"_Chance! I got the gunman but it wasn't Seymour!" _Winston yelled_. "I repeat: it wasn't Seymour! He's still out there somewhere!"_

"Take Ilsa and start moving the guests inside the house! Barricade yourselves inside if you have to! And be careful, Seymour has at least one other guy with him!"

* * *

Outside the gazebo was pandemonium. Winston had managed to commandeer a walkie-talkie and was trying to coordinate the Mcvey's security, herding the guests into the house, away from the gunfire. Their orders had been to protect the Mcveys at all costs and they were resisting their new instructions, but when Winston flashed them a fake FBI ID, they reluctantly fell into line. There was a chance that whoever cut the security feed was still in the house, so Winston sent a couple of security guards to check the room that held the house's surveillance hub. They reported back that the equipment had been trashed, but there was no sign of the intruders.

There was no time to check the entire house, but as Alison was the intended target and the cameras were down, there was no reason to believe that Seymour or his men would linger inside. Chance was right, getting the guests indoors seemed the best option.

"Winston, give me a gun," Ilsa said.

He was busy directing the security staff to organise a search of the garden, so at first he didn't really take in what she was saying.

"A gun, Winston," she persisted. "Give me your gun!"

Her words finally seemed to register, and he turned to answer her. "You don't need a gun, Ilsa. You're safe enough here with me."

"But I'm not staying here, Winston," she said impatiently. "Ames is out there, unarmed! Guerrero is hurt! I'm not leaving them out there on their own!"

"Ames is a tough kid, she'll be fine…"

"This is not negotiable, Mr Winston! Give me your gun!"

Another shot burst of gunfire tore through the evening air provoking further panic and screaming amongst the guests. Ilsa decided to take advantage of Winston being distracted by the reports of a second gunman holed up in a tool shed that were coming through the radio. She crouched down and carefully lifted the leg of Winston's pants. As she had hoped, he was carrying a secondary firearm, and she delicately unsnapped the holster and slide the gun out. Winston was so distracted that he didn't realise what she done until he felt a slight pull at his ankle, but by then it was too late. Ilsa had slipped off her heels and run off into the darkness.

* * *

Ames was trying very hard not to panic. She'd found Guerrero not far from the surveillance van, but he was out cold, and once she'd established that he was still alive and breathing, she didn't know what else to do. The shock of seeing Guerrero looking so lifeless meant that it took her a little while to put together what had happened. Once she had reassured herself that Guerrero was still alive, she checked on the body of the man lying a few feet away. The knife sticking out of his chest made it pretty obvious that he was dead, and the baseball bat nearby explained why Guerrero was unconscious.

Ames could hear bursts of gunfire coming from the direction of the party, so she checked the body for weapons, but he didn't seem to have a gun. She stood up and gave the body a good kick on Guerrero's behalf, but also to make herself feel better. That proved to be a mistake. The impact of her boot against the dead man's ribcage not only made her foot hurt like hell, it also forced more bloody foam from the man's mouth. Ames staggered away from the body and threw up by the side of the road. When she saw that there was blood on her boots she took them off and threw them into the bushes.

Something caught her eye, a small shadow on the road where there shouldn't have been one. She walked over and crouched down: it was Guerrero's gun. She picked it up and it made her feel a little less vulnerable. She went back to where Guerrero was lying and sat down on the asphalt next to him, unsure of what to do next.

"_Ames! Have you found Guerrero?"_

"Yes! He's by the van, but I can't wake him up!"

"_Has he been shot? Is he breathing?"_

"Yes, he's breathing. There's a guy with a knife in his chest too! It looks like he went after Guerrero with a baseball bat!"

She waited, hoping that someone would throw her a lifeline, to tell her what to do, but all she could hear was more gunfire and Winston shouting orders to the security staff. Chance and Winston were obviously in it up to their necks, which left her to help Guerrero, but how? Should she call 911? The police were probably on their way anyway, the gunfire can't have gone unnoticed, but the last thing Guerrero would want would be to end up in the hands of the authorities, and he was lying not six feet away from a dead body! Guerrero's prints were bound to be all over the knife, should she wipe it clean, or get rid of it? Or should she try and get Guerrero in the van and get them both out of there? Guerrero's face was bruised and bloody and he must have at least a bad concussion to be knocked out cold, could she even risk moving him?

When she heard Ilsa's voice over the comms link demanding that Winston give her a gun, she could have sobbed with relief, but she was absolutely not going to cry. She's heard the concern in Chance's voice earlier and she wasn't going to distract him further by crying.

"Ames! Are you okay?"

Ilsa seemed to appear out of nowhere and then she was there, holding Ames as she shook with the effort of not letting herself cry. Ames nodded.

Ilsa dropped to her knees and checked Guerrero's pulse and his breathing. She thought about slapping his face to try to bring him round, but it was already such a bruised and bloody mess that she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead she grabbed his shoulder and shook him.

"Guerrero? Guerrero, can you hear me?"

There was no response. Ilsa opened her clutch purse, relieved that she'd managed to keep hold of it despite the unfolding chaos of the evening, and pulled out her cell phone to dial 911.

"Are you crazy? Guerrero hates hospitals! And what about the body? He'll go apeshit if the cops turn up!"

"He needs a doctor, Ames! And he's in no position to argue! Let me worry about the police."

* * *

Chance heard the exchange between Ilsa and Ames through his earpiece. Ames was right, Guerrero was not likely to appreciate waking up in the back of an ambulance, or worse, in police custody. Chance knew from personal experience that a concussed Guerrero was a potentially lethal Guerrero. He would fight with the ferocity of a wild animal, intent only on escape. Only when he had established that medical attention was an absolute necessity would he begrudgingly seek help, and even then it would be from one of his shady contacts who would ensure there were no records of Guerrero or his injury. Chance had to be there when he woke up. He refused to even consider 'if' he woke up, Guerrero _would _wake up.

"_Chance! The second gunman is down! Repeat: the second gunman is down! I'm on my way to question him. We should get a final number on how many men Seymour had with him!"_

"I hear you, Winston," Chance said softly, trying not to give his position away. "Keep your eyes open for Seymour!"

The gazebo was almost empty now, save for a few party guests still cowering under the tables, too scared to move. The last few gunshots had come from a different direction, off to one side and towards the back of the gazebo. Chance had hidden Alison's parents at the back of the tent, assuming that Seymour would come from the direction of the initial gunfire, but now he was doubting that assumption. His priority had been to hide Alison and get her parents off the stage so they weren't such an obvious target, but now he was concerned that they were in harm's way with only Mr Mcvey's small calibre pistol to fight Seymour off.

Keeping low to the ground, Chance broke cover and ran to the corner of the stage. There was a gap of about three feet between the side of the stage and the wall of the gazebo. Chance kept low and pressed himself against the side of the stage so that he wouldn't cast a telltale shadow against the canvas wall beside him, and crept silently towards the rear of the stage. He'd almost reached the corner when there was the crack of a gun firing followed by a scream.

"Alison! Where the fuck are you?" a man whose voice Chance didn't recognise shouted. "I know you're still in here, you stupid whore!"

Chance carefully inched towards the corner of the stage.

"Let my wife go and leave my daughter alone!" Mr Mcvey demanded in a slightly shaky voice.

"Shut the fuck up, old man... Alison!"

Chance heard a slightly muffled whimper, which he took to be coming from Mrs Mcvey. Judging from the acoustics of their voices, Chance gambled on the assumption that Seymour was standing closest to him with Mrs Mcvey held in front of him at gunpoint and Mr Mcvey stood opposite. He carefully took a quick glance around the corner to confirm he was correct: he was.

"Don't come out baby! Stay where you are!"

_Shit_, Mrs Mcvey had just confirmed that Alison was still inside the gazebo and within earshot. Chance couldn't risk shooting Seymour until Mrs Mcvey was clear. Seymour could fire out of reflex, or Chance's own bullet could pass through him and hit her. He needed a distraction.

"I'm coming out! Please don't hurt my mom!" a small voice said from within the stage.

When Chance heard the sound of the floor panel scraping across the stage, he dove forward and shouted "Get down!". Seymour had turned toward the stage at the sound of Alison's voice, as Chance knew he would, giving him a clear shot, and at the sound of Chance's voice, he pointed the gun away from Mrs Mcvey, towards Chance.

Chance fired off three rounds before Seymour could even aim, and he crumpled to the floor, dead before he even hit the ground.

Chance got to his feet and walked over to Seymour to check his pulse. As soon as he was satisfied that he was dead, he took the gun from his hand and ran out of the gazebo, leaving Alison in the arms of her relieved parents.

He didn't waste a second's thought on the man he'd just killed. The only thing going through his mind was that he had to get to Guerrero.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's note: Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. was playing silly buggers again last night and wouldn't let me log on! Grrr. HUGE thank you to my lovely reviewers and all of you who are following this fic. You sure know how to make a fangirl feel loved!**

**Quick reminder, don't forget about the HT forums. It's a bit of a nightmare to post links there, but you can find out more about the latest news on season 3 if you check there. I post most of the links either on the Human Target Fan Collective on Facebook, or failing that WPTJEH community on LiveJournal. Fox have yet to make a decision regarding S3 so NOW IS THE TIME TO SHOW YOUR SUPPORT FOR HUMAN TARGET!**

* * *

Chance reached Guerrero just as the EMTs were loading him into an ambulance on a gurney. He was still unconscious and Chance was struck by how small and helpless he looked, especially without his glasses, which he must have lost in the fight. He tucked Seymour's gun into the back of his belt and began undoing the restraints that secured Guerrero to the gurney, shoving the paramedics away as they tried to stop him.

"Sir, you need to let us do our job!"

Chance pulled his own gun and, without looking up, pointed it at the paramedic who had spoken. "No, you need to let me do mine."

The paramedics exchanged a look and one of them reached for his radio, but Ames saw what he was doing and trained Guerrero's gun on him. He froze.

"Enough!" Ilsa said with such an authoritative tone that even Chance stopped pulling at the straps on the gurney and looked at her. "Chance, allow them to load him into the ambulance."

"But…"

"You!" she said, ignoring his protest and pointing to the EMT who'd been driving the ambulance. "Take this man to this address. He is to be released into the care of Dr Clayton Dematteo and no one else. Do you understand me?" She held out a business card with nothing but a San Francisco address and telephone number on it. The medic refused to take it.

"We have to take him to San Francisco General. We're not a taxi service…"

Ilsa realised that this probably wasn't the first time the paramedic had had a gun pulled on him.

"If you take him to San Francisco General, I will be forced to take measures, drastic measures to ensure his safety. Do you really want to be responsible for closing down the only Level One Trauma Centre for the city? There must be no record that you even saw this man. It is a matter of national security."

Ilsa could see the men were wavering as they exchanged a nervous look. She dipped her hand into her purse and retrieved four crisp one hundred dollar bills and added them to the business card she was offering the driver. It seemed to do the trick, and as the driver reached for them, Ilsa took his hand between hers as if they were shaking hands, and pressed the card and the cash into his palm.

"Her Majesty's government thanks you," she said, in a low, deliberate tone. The man's eyes widened slightly and he swallowed nervously. Ilsa nodded and released his hand.

Chance was staring at her, his mouth hanging slightly open with surprise.

"Go," she urged him. "They'll need you when he wakes up. Dr Dematteo has been briefed."

Chance nodded and climbed into the back of the ambulance, still looking slightly shell-shocked.

Ames waited until the ambulance drove away before speaking. "Ilsa! That was awesome!"

"It's the accent," Ilsa said, looking a bit distant. "There's something about a woman with a well-spoken English accent that a certain type of American men seem to be hard-wired to obey. It's almost a Pavlovian response really, they can't help it."

"But you had this all planned!"

"I take my responsibilities as Guerrero's employer very seriously. He refused to take the health insurance that I offered him, so I made alternative arrangements for him, in case of emergencies." Ilsa took out her cell phone and began scrolling through the numbers. When she found the one she needed, she hit the button to place the call. "Dr Dematteo? Yes, I'm fine, but we have a code G. He's arriving in an ambulance. Head injury. ETA ten, maybe fifteen minutes."

Chance refused to let the EMT refasten the straps to keep Guerrero from rolling off the gurney. It meant that he had to crouch down beside him and hold him in place whenever they turned a corner, which was awkward, but still an infinitely better option than dealing with Guerrero's reaction to waking up and finding himself restrained. He begrudgingly allowed the EMT to attach a pulse oximeter to Guerrero's finger, but that's where he drew the line.

He studied Guerrero's face, searching for even the tiniest sign that he was about to regain consciousness. The whole world seemed to shrink down to the interior of the ambulance, and the only sound Chance could hear was the persistent bleep that told him Guerrero's heart was still beating.

After about five minutes, during which the EMT sat in silence staring at Guerrero as if he were a bomb about to go off, Chance detected the slightest flutter of movement behind Guerrero's eyelids. He took the hand with the pulse oximeter and held it flat against his chest, and leaned in so his lips were almost touching his ear.

"Guerrero. Wake up, buddy," he murmured.

Guerrero's eyelids fluttered a little more noticeably, and the EMT took a penlight from his pocket and was about to check his pupil responses when Chance shoved him back in his seat.

"Not a good idea," Chance told him, before turning his attention back to Guerrero. "Do not freak out, Guerrero. Just open your eyes…"

Guerrero's eyes snapped open and he sat up, gripping his free hand around Chance's throat as if he was about to crush his airway. Chance didn't resist, he just calmly squeezed his other hand to his chest and waited for Guerrero's brain to catch up with his eyes. It took a few seconds, a long uncomfortable few seconds during which Chance could barely breathe, but recognition flashed in Guerrero's eyes and he let his hand fall away from his throat. He looked like he was about to say something, and Chance only just managed to grab a basin and shove it under his chin before he began to vomit.

"It's okay, buddy. I got you. " Chance said, pushing his hair out of his face. "I got you."

Guerrero threw up a couple more times before they reached their destination, and between each bout of sickness he made it abundantly clear how he felt about hospitals and the medical profession in general.

"Just relax, okay?" Chance said. "You're not going to a hospital, but you need to get checked out. You were unconscious for nearly twenty minutes!"

Guerrero was still a bit too out of it to put up much of a fight, and that worried Chance. The ambulance finally stopped and the doors were thrown open by a professional looking man in his mid forties.

"I am Dr Dematteo, and this I take it is my patient," he said, looking at Guerrero with a wary curiosity. "I will take it from here, gentlemen."

Chance helped Guerrero down out of the ambulance. No one dared to suggest that he use a wheelchair. Chance had been expecting their destination to be an office, or even the doctor's own residence, but he was surprised to discover that they appeared to be in the grounds of a private school. As soon as Chance and Guerrero had vacated the back of the ambulance, it took off at speed. Chance was willing to bet that the EMTs wouldn't tell anyone about their strange patient.

"You must be Mr Chance," the doctor said. "Mrs Pucci speaks most highly of you. Let's get the patient inside, shall we?"

He led them inside a small brightly lit building, which Chance took to be the school's infirmary. The doctor took them through to an examination room and instructed Guerrero to sit down. Satisfied that he was not in a real hospital, and reassured by Chance and the doctor's insistence that there would be no record of his treatment, Guerrero reluctantly let the doctor examine him.

"Pupils equal and reactive," the doctor said shining a penlight in Guerrero's eyes. "That's a good sign."

"No shit," Guerrero grumbled, slapping the doctors hand away.

"Can you tell me your name?" the doctor asked.

"Fuck you," Guerrero muttered half-heartedly.

"Is he normally this belligerent?" the doctor asked Chance, apparently unfazed by Guerrero's behaviour.

"Yes," Chance replied. "If not more so. Trust me, for him, these are normal responses."

The doctor nodded. "What exactly happened? Mrs Pucci only told me it was a head wound."

"Baseball bat," Guerrero said. "And a lucky punch."

"So you remember what happened?"

"It's crystal fucking clear."

"May I?" the doctor was wise enough to ask before gently checking Guerrero's head for lumps and abrasions. "It seems your friend has been extremely lucky, Mr Chance. I'll need to see an x-ray to be sure, but I think after a few days rest he should be fine."

"No x-rays," Guerrero insisted. "I'm not going to a fucking hospital!"

"Not to worry. I have the facilities here to take x-rays."

An hour later Dr Dematteo had examined the x-rays and finished checking Guerrero over.

"Normally I would recommend that you stay under medical supervision for the next twenty four hours so your condition can be properly monitored, but I understand that this will not be possible. However, you should not be alone for the next day or two. Someone will have to keep an eye on you."

"Not a problem, doc, Chance said. "He'll stay with me."

"I'm afraid I cannot offer you any pain relief with an injury of this nature, but if it doesn't improve over the next couple of days, you must return to see me or another physician."

Guerrero glared at the doctor, but didn't reply.

"Thanks doc," Chance said, because Guerrero obviously wasn't going to. "I'll see that he's okay."

"I believe there should be a car waiting for you outside."

Ames was waiting for them outside with the surveillance van. She'd changed back into her own clothes, but her feet were bare and rubbed raw. Chance raised his eyebrows and was about to ask her what had happened to her shoes, when she ran up to them as if she was going to hug Guerrero but thought better of it at the last moment, handing him his glasses instead.

"Is he okay?" she asked Chance as Guerrero wiped his glasses against the corner of his shirt and put them back on. "I mean, I know he's not okay, I can see that, but no lasting damage, right?"

"Doc recons nothing more than a concussion and bruising," Chance said.

"Dude, I'm right here!" Guerrero said sullenly. "I've got a headache but I'm still able to talk y'know."

Ames and Chance exchanged a look. If Guerrero was up to being snraky with them, it was definitely a good sign.

Now that he knew Guerrero was definitely going to be okay, Chance felt a bone-deep exhaustion settle in. Ames offered him the keys to van, but he shook his head.

"You drive. I'm beat."

"Are we going back to the office or…?"

"Guerrero is going to stay with me for a few days."

She nodded and climbed into the driver's seat. Guerrero sat up front and Chance got in the back. He knew Guerrero must be feeling like a passenger in his own life after being carted off in an ambulance against what everyone knew to be his wishes, so he let Guerrero take the front seat without complaint. They drove in silence for a few minutes, until Chance leaned forward, resting his elbows on the front seats and asked what had happened after he left.

"Well, when the cops showed up Winston and Ilsa had to do some pretty fast talking," Ames explained. "But the fact that Seymour's guys killed Alison's protective detail didn't exactly win Seymour and his pals much sympathy. Besides, all the bad guys are dead so it's not like there will be a trial or anything. Winston's pretty certain that the whole thing should be wrapped up pretty soon."

"They're all dead?" Chance asked. "I thought Winston had one guy for questioning."

"Nuh-uh," Ames said shaking her head. "He bled out before the paramedics arrived. He did confirm that there were just three guys plus Seymour though."

They sat in silence for a couple of minutes.

"So what happened?" Ames asked. "One minute you're kissing Alison frickin' Mcvey and the next all hell breaks loose!"

Chance gave Ames a quick rundown as to what had happened in the gazebo and how he took Seymour out.

"So you got to be the hero again then," Ames said, with a strained little smile. Chance could see that she was struggling to keep the conversation light and easy, but there was an underlying tension to her body language that screamed that she was far from okay.

"Yeah, I guess," Chance shrugged. "It is kinda in my job description."

"So are you going to see Alison again?" she asked playfully.

Chance was looking at Guerrero when she spoke, and even though he had quite a restricted view sitting behind them, he caught the way he clenched his jaw at the mention of Alison's name.

"No, I don't think so," he said cautiously.

"You should so call her!" Ames said, obviously latching on to what she thought was a more up-beat and positive topic of conversation. Guerrero however, looked like he might be sick. "She was like, all over you on the dance floor! Not to mention that she stuck her tongue down your…"

"Just, shut the fuck up!" Guerrero snapped. "I get it! Chance saved the day! Everything is just hunky-fucking-dory! No big deal!"

Ames went very pale, and her mouth hardened into a thin line as she gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn her knuckles white. She took a hard right and slammed on the breaks, bringing the van to a screeching halt in a side street.

"Ames, what the…" Guerrero started to ask.

"IT IS A BIG DEAL!" she screamed at him. "It's a big fucking deal because when I saw you one the ground, not moving I thought you were fucking DEAD, you asshole!" The two men sat in shocked silence for a moment, and Ames rested her head on the steering wheel taking deep shuddering breaths as she tried to fight the tears that threatened to start falling.

"Well, I'm not," Guerrero said.

Ames sat back up, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "Yeah, I can see that now, you douche."

"There's no need to get all pre-menstrual about it, jeez," Guerrero muttered.

"Fuck you," Ames replied, throwing the van into reverse and getting them back on the road back to the office.

"You might wanna consider waterproof make-up if you're gonna make a habit out of bawling your eyes out. You're putting Chris Crocker's eyeliner to shame right now, dude."

Chance smiled as tension in the van lifted as Ames and Guerrero bickered with each other all the way back to the office.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's note: The site seems to be behaving itself again now, so (fingers crossed) it won't be long until I post the next chapter! (And yes, it will be smutty!)**

* * *

When they got back to the office, Guerrero slunk upstairs to Chance's quarters without saying a word.

"A thank you would be nice!" Ames called after him.

"He'll never show it, but he does care," Chance said.

"Yeah, well that was so obvious, what with all the bitching and name calling on the way home," Ames grumbled.

"Isn't that kind of normal for you guys, though?" Chance asked. "You wind him up, and he insults you back?"

"Yeah, I guess," Ames shrugged. "But after what happened…"

"You ever think that this is his way of showing you that everything is fine? That there's nothing to worry about?"

Ames thought about that for a moment. "You guys are so emotionally retarded."

Chance gave her one of his 'what can you do?' shrugs.

"I'm going home," Ames said. "And I'm taking tomorrow off!"

Chance called Winston, to check in and let him know that Guerrero was okay.

"Why am I not surprised?" Winston said. "That man has more lives than a cat!"

He considered calling Ilsa too, but Winston said that he'd already taken her home and she'd spoken to Dr Dematteo already. Chance sighed as he hung up the call. It seemed that there was nothing left for him to do but take care of Guerrero.

He decided to take Guerrero a cup of tea. He'd probably need to re-hydrate after being sick so many times, and besides, taking him something would give him some kind of purpose. Chance was physically and emotionally drained, so maybe observing the social niceties of offering a guest a drink would do something to force some kind of normality onto the situation. Chance doubted it, after all this was Guerrero he was dealing with, but it couldn't hurt to try.

Chance took the tea upstairs, along with a box of crackers in case Guerrero felt up to eating something, but rather than heading for the bedroom, Guerrero had stretched out on the couch in front of a wildlife documentary on the TV. He looked up when Chance walked in and accepted the tea and crackers without a word. Chance shoved Guerrero's legs out of the way and sat down next to him on the couch.

"You were a little hard on Ames," Chance said, when it became apparent that Guerrero was content to sit in silence. "You really scared her tonight."

"Serves her right for yelling at me," Guerrero said, apparently unaware of how juvenile that made him sound. "In case you hadn't worked this out, a baseball bat to the head tends to leave you with a bit of a headache."

"You scared me too," Chance said. Guerrero turned to look at him, but Chance's gaze was still fixed on the images on the TV of penguins swimming for their lives as they were chased by orcas.

"Ames is a drama queen," Guerrero grumbled, staring at the TV again.

"It doesn't mean you should take it out on her, though. Why are you so angry? So the guy with the baseball bat got the jump on you, so what? Shit happens!"

"Yeah, well that particular shit shouldn't have happened!" Guerrero scowled. Chance glanced over at him and it suddenly struck him just how angry Guerrero was, and that it wasn't really directed at Ames. She'd just had the misfortune of being nearby and annoying at the wrong moment. The person Guerrero was really angry with was himself.

"What really happened, Guerrero?" Chance asked. "Why did that guy get the jump on you?"

Guerrero ignored him. Chance waited, but Guerrero seemed to consider the subject closed. He sat there for a while longer, watching him drink his tea, before turning his gaze back onto the TV, trying to figure out why he was so pissed. Guerrero was usually fairly stoic about getting injured, in their line of work getting hurt from time to time was part of the job, but he seemed to be blaming himself for getting knocked unconscious, and that was very unusual. Chance considered that maybe he was annoyed because he'd been taken out by a guy with a baseball bat when he was armed with a gun, but he ruled that out pretty quickly. They both knew from experience that superior fire-power was no guarantee of success. So what was it that was bothering him?

Chance thought over the evenings events, searching for a clue that would explain Guerrero's behaviour. Guerrero had seemed fine when Chance had dinner with Alison, he'd even recommended the lamb, and he'd been right, it was very good. There had been a small problem with the comms being too loud that Guerrero had blamed on Winston, but Chance put that down to Guerrero's ongoing mission to drive Winston crazy. When he'd been dancing with Alison at the party, Guerrero had actually encouraged Chance to ask her out, which Chance took to mean that despite the fact they'd be fooling around lately, it was no big deal to Guerrero, and he was free to start something with Alison if he wanted too. That had made Chance feel…what? Uncomfortable? Disappointed? He decided not to dwell on it. He was trying to decipher Guerrero's feelings not his own.

What happened after that? Alison dragged him onto the stage, the cameras went down, Guerrero went to check on them, getting attacked as he left the van and Alison had kissed him in front of the baying crowd. He thought about the sequence of events for a few moments before he realised that the order was all wrong. Guerrero had begun cursing _as_ Alison was kissing him, and it had been immediately _after_ the kiss that he'd said the cameras had gone down. So the last thing Guerrero had seen on the monitors before they died, and he ran head first into a guy with a baseball bat, had been Alison kissing him…

Chance's stomach seemed to drop as a realisation began to dawn. Guerrero had only started really yelling at Ames when she persisted in asking Chance about seeing Alison again…

Could it really be that simple? Was Guerrero jealous of Alison? If he'd been distracted by seeing them kiss on the monitor, it could explain why Guerrero was so annoyed. Letting his feelings override his keen sense of self-preservation like that would definitely make him angry with himself…

Chance turned to Guerrero, ready to challenge him with his theory, but Guerrero had nodded off. Chance sighed, his questions would have to wait. Between the concussion and the exhaustion, Guerrero was unlikely to be receptive to the idea of talking about his feelings, a topic of conversation that was difficult to discuss at the best of times.

Chance fetched some clean sweatpants and a t-shirt from his bedroom, and dumped them on Guerrero's lap. Guerrero groaned and opened his eyes.

"Dude, I was sleeping.." he protested.

"Yeah, well you're not sleeping on the couch tonight," Chance said firmly. "Put those on and get into bed."

"I'm fine on the couch."

"Bed, Guerrero. You're injured and sleeping on the couch really isn't going to do you any favours."

Guerrero still refused to move.

Chance sighed. "I'm way too tired to argue about this right now. I'm going to take a shower, and if you're still on the couch when I'm done, I will fucking carry you to bed if I have to!"

Guerrero frowned, but the threat seemed to do the trick. He dragged himself to his feet and pushed past Chance, heading for the bedroom.

Chance showered quickly but thoroughly. He didn't want to leave Guerrero on his own for any length of time in case he had any bright ideas about driving himself home with a concussion. Chance was glad to wash away the lingering scent of Alison's cloying perfume from his skin. He needed to scrub away every last trace of the Matthew King persona so he could feel like himself again.

He towelled himself off, slipped on an old pair of sweat pants and walked through to his bedroom to check on Guerrero. He was surprised to see Guerrero curled up in the foetal position. All the times they'd shared a bed together, Guerrero always slept on his back with Chance's head resting on his chest. Chance had assumed that Guerrero preferred sleeping on his back, and he was touched by the idea that he'd only slept that way for his sake.

Chance let out a heavy sigh and rubbed at his eyes. Maybe he was jut reading too much into things.

"Are you coming to bed or not?"

Chance hadn't even realised that Guerrero was still awake until he spoke.

"Uh, I wasn't sure if you'd be cool with that," Chance said. "I figured I'd just crash on the chair."

"There's no need to be such martyr about it," Guerrero said sleepily. "I think you've been heroic enough for one day, dude."

Chance simply didn't have the mental energy to give the matter any more thought. He slipped into bed beside Guerrero and promptly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

Chance woke up slowly as the morning light filtered through his bedroom blinds. He was in no rush to open his eyes, he was far too comfortable. It took him a second to realise that he was curled up against another warm body, his arm wrapped around their waist, and their hair threatening to tickle his face. Chance leaned in a little, burying his nose in the hair and taking a deep breath. _Guerrero_. He was still asleep, Chance could tell by the rhythm of his breathing and from the sound of him snoring softly. Chance didn't even consider moving or opening his eyes. He was content just to lay there, holding Guerrero as he slept.

Chance dozed on and off for a while, until he could no longer ignore the urgent need to use the bathroom. He carefully pulled his arm away from Guerrero and slipped silently from the bed. Once he'd relieved the pressure on his bladder, he snuck back into the bedroom. He hesitated for a moment, wondering if it would be a better idea to just get dressed and let Guerrero sleep, but the urge to curl up with him again was just too strong. He slipped back under the covers and carefully slid his arm back around Guerrero's waist. He stirred a little, settling back into Chance's embrace, but he didn't wake up.

Chance knew there was little to no hope of him getting back to sleep, but he didn't care. Guerrero was always the first one to wake up when they shared a bed, and Chance wasn't going to waste the rare opportunity to linger in bed with him. And then the knowledge was just there, obvious and unquestionable: he wanted this and he'd wanted it for longer than he'd realised.

When they had started fooling around, it had taken Chance by surprise. It was confusing and dangerous and so fucking hot that just thinking about it made him hard, but the other stuff, sharing a bed together, turning to Guerrero for comfort and reassurance, that had been so easy, so natural. Trust and intimacy were two things that both Chance and Guerrero normally had issues with, and yet they shared them with each other without question. He couldn't speak for Guerrero, but Chance wanted it all, the sex, the intimacy, the trust. No one else could ever come close to meaning what Guerrero did to him, and he'd be a fool to think that they could.

It probably wasn't going to be easy. Guerrero had a tendency to baulk at the mere mention of relationships or any kind of personal commitment. Chance knew that even maintaining contact with his child's mother was difficult for Guerrero, an ordeal that he only endured in order to keep access to his son. Making Guerrero see that Chance wanted more than just to be friends and occasional fuck-buddies, not to mention convincing him that it could work, was likely to be difficult but surely not impossible.

Chance sighed and pulled Guerrero at little closer to him. He wasn't going to let him go, not now, not ever.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's note: The smut takes me a little longer to write. Hope it was worth the wait!**

* * *

When Guerrero woke up with Chance's arm wrapped around his waist, he assumed that Chance was still asleep, but when he tried to wriggle free, his arm tightened around him.

"Hey, how's the head?" Chance asked.

"Better," he replied. He tried to sit up, but Chance wouldn't loosen his grip. "Uh, Chance?"

"What?"

"I gotta get up."

"No, you don't."

"Yeah, I really do. I have to pee."

Chance grumbled and reluctantly let Guerrero get up.

When Guerrero stepped out of the bathroom he was surprised to see Chance leaning against the wall waiting for him, his arms folded over his bare chest, and a hint of a lop-sided smile at the corner of his mouth.

"Seriously? I told you I'm fine. I'm not going to collapse or get lost on the way back from the bathroom!"

"I know," Chance's smile widened. "But I needed to make sure you were coming back to bed. You have a history of sneaking off."

"I don't think going back to bed would be such a good idea, dude," Guerrero said warily.

"No, it's a great idea."

"Don't I get any say in the matter?"

"Did I get a choice in the loading bay?"

Guerrero took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "We can't do this, Chance," he said.

Chance could see that Guerrero's anger was still there, simmering beneath his carefully neutral expression. He'd been distracted by his feelings for Chance, and although the result had been a relatively minor injury, he didn't want to put himself, or Chance, at risk like that again. Chance knew that Guerrero wouldn't or couldn't talk about it, so for now at least, he would take a more direct approach.

"Oh, I can definitely do this," Chance smiled, pointedly glancing down at the way his cock was already straining at his sweatpants. "And I'm pretty sure you can too." Chance stepped towards him and gently stroked his hand across the bulge that was growing in Guerrero's own pants.

"Dude, not cool," he murmured as Chance stroked a little harder and tilted his face up towards with his free hand, and pressed their lips together in a surprisingly restrained kiss.

"Tell me you don't want this as much as I do and I'll stop," Chance said, his mouth still so close that Guerrero could feel his words ghost over his lips.

Chance could see he was fighting it, that he was going to try to tell him to back off, so he kissed him again, and this time, after a moment's resistance, Guerrero leaned into it, his hands holding Chance's face, his tongue parting his lips, eager to taste Chance's mouth again.

Chance's kiss was relentless, and he gave Guerrero neither the space nor the opportunity to back down. He stopped stroking Guerrero's cock and slid his hands round to cup his ass, grinding their bodies together. Guerrero let out a grunt as he felt Chance's hard-on pressed against his own, but Chance still didn't let up, crowding him, invading his space, his mouth, his mind. Guerrero didn't stand a chance as he was pushed step by step back into the bedroom and towards the bed.

When they reached the bed, Guerrero was expecting Chance to push him onto it and continue grinding their bodies together, but instead Chance turned them around and fell backwards onto the bed, dragging Guerrero down on top of him. Their lips parted at the moment Chance's back hit the bed, but still Chance didn't let up, taking advantage of the moment's space between them to strip Guerrero of his t-shirt and beginning to bite and suck at Guerrero's neck, as his arms wrapped around him, keeping their bodies pinned together.

Chance could feel Guerrero's reluctance in every taut line of his body, but the desire was there too, in his flushed skin, hot to the touch, and his ragged, irregular breathing, so he persisted. He could feel Guerrero's resistance starting to fade as he tilted his hips towards him, rubbing their cocks together, and Guerrero thrust down against him, more out of reflex than choice. Guerrero splayed his hands across Chance's naked chest in a last ditch attempt to push himself away, but he was distracted by Chance's racing heart-beat and the feeling of his skin beneath his hands, and then Chance's hand was at the back of his neck, pulling him down until their lips met.

Somewhere in that urgent kiss, as Chance's tongue slid into his mouth, Guerrero gave up the fight. It was one thing to decide that this thing between them had to stop, but faced with Chance half-naked, dragging him to bed… it was something even his best intentions couldn't deal with. Chance felt the change immediately as Guerrero licked deep into his mouth, and the hands that had been trying, and failing, to push him away found his nipples and pinched them hard. Chance moaned into Guerrero's mouth, and so he did it again, even harder. The sound Chance made this time was more of a whimper as he shuddered beneath him, and Guerrero smiled at the small victory. He kissed along Chance's jaw, leaving his mouth free to make more of those maddening noises, but all he heard was a hint of a sigh as he licked and gently nibbled at Chance's jaw and neck, and if they were going to do this, he wanted to hear more, much more from Chance.

He pinched Chance's nipples again, but softer this time, rolling them between his fingertips and tugging at them gently, tormenting Chance by not using quite enough force to spend that jolt of pleasure/pain through his body. Chance moaned and shifted restlessly beneath him as Guerrero ran his tongue down the side of his neck to his shoulder, and then Guerrero bit down, hard.

"Fuck!" Chance cried out in a broken voice, digging his fingers into Guerrero's back and thrusting his hips up towards him.

Guerrero licked and sucked at the spot where he'd bitten for a moment, before trailing kisses down to Chance's nipple, taking it into his mouth. He flicked it with his tongue a couple of times and dragged his teeth slowly against it, making Chance moan and struggle to catch his breath. Now that he'd given in to Chance, Guerrero seemed to be methodically mapping out his weak spots, taking control of the situation and using everything he knew of Chance's body to reduce him to a writhing mess beneath him. Every time there was even the hint of teeth against his skin, Chance would tense, his muscles pulled taut in anticipation of the bite that would make his body thrum like a plucked string.

Guerrero ran his hands over Chance's chest and ribs as his mouth wandered over the flat expanse of his belly, humming against his skin as the muscles beneath bunched, and twitched. Chance felt helpless under the onslaught of Guerrero's mouth, and the brush of his moustache against his skin was the perfect counterpoint to the smooth slide of his tongue. Whenever Guerrero nipped at him with his teeth, Chance's whole body would jerk and he would cry out, but Guerrero would push him, gently but firmly back on to the bed.

Guerrero tugged on the drawstring at the waist of Chance's sweatpants, and slowly pushed them down. He glanced up at Chance's face as he grabbed his hips and ran his thumbs along the prominent lines of the bones themselves. Chance's arms were thrown over his head and his hands were gripping the pillow beneath him, his eyes were closed and his lips slightly parted.

"Look at me," Guerrero commanded.

Chance opened his eyes, and as he did so Guerrero took his cock into his mouth.

"Guerrero…. Fuck!" Chance moaned, reaching down and catching his fingers in Guerrero hair.

Guerrero's mouth set a frantic pace, licking and sucking, and he used his grip on Chance's hips to pull him in, thrusting into his mouth. Chance moaned and grasped at Guerrero's hair. The intensity of his mouth was almost too much, pushing Chance to the edge, and he didn't want it to be over so soon…

"Guerrero!" he moaned, "not yet, not like this…" It took a massive effort on Chance's part, but he managed to sit up and push Guerrero away. His eyes looked dark and dangerous as he stared at Chance for a moment before shoving him back flat on his back and covering his body with his own, grinding against him, licking and sucking at Chance's neck. Chance took his face in his hands and guided his mouth towards his own, kissing him hard and deep, before pulling back and locking eyes with him.

"I want you to fuck me, Guerrero," he said.

Guerrero shook his head. "Chance..."

"I mean it! I want you to fuck me, and I know you want it too."

Guerrero rolled off him, onto his back, raking his fingers through his hair. "Chance, what you're asking…"

"I know what I'm asking," Chance interrupted, rolling onto his side and running his hand up Guerrero's thigh, marvelling at the fact that somehow Guerrero was still wearing his old pair of sweatpants.

"You've never…"

"No, you'd be the first. My first."

Chance had been expecting a little resistance from Guerrero, but the look of concern on his face took him by surprise. Pushing things this bit further was obviously a major deal in Guerrero's book, and the idea of fucking him seemed to be giving him some trouble, despite the fact that it clearly appealed to him. Chance wasn't going to back down though. He did want this, and he needed for Guerrero to see that. He slid his hand into Guerrero pants and slowly began jerking him off.

"Chance, we can't," Guerrero groaned, "fooling around is one thing but…"

"I'm done fooling around, Guerrero," Chance said, working his hand a little faster, gripping a little harder. "I want this… I want you."

Guerrero was staring off into space, clenching and unclenching his jaw, and Chance could see that he was caught between what he thought was necessary to protect them both, and what he really wanted.

"Guerrero, look at me," he said, withdrawing his hand from Guerrero's pants and reaching up with both hands, turning his face towards him. Their eyes met and Chance knew he had to say or do something to make him understand, but he didn't know what it was that he needed to say. "I trust you," he said, finally settling on the one thing he knew would never change between them.

For a long moment Guerrero just looked at him.

"And you really need to stop thinking…" Chance added, kissing him softly.

It took a second for Guerrero realise that Chance was using his own words against him, that it was the same thing he'd said to Chance that time in the loading bay. He growled and rolled Chance onto his back, kissing him back hard and deep, as he finally realised that what he thought was his choice wasn't a choice at all. Guerrero had lost control of the situation the first time he'd reached for Chance in the dark. Maybe even before that, when he'd let Chance cling to him for comfort as he fell asleep.

Eventually he pulled back, holding Chance's face between his hands.

"Chance…"

"Don't you fucking dare ask me if I'm sure!"

"Fine," he smiled, the last of the tension draining away from his face. "Do you at least have lube, or shall I add masochism to your list of kinks? "

"Nightstand. Top drawer," Chance grinned, relieved that Guerrero had lost that distant look. "And I don't have kinks."

Guerrero gave him a cynical look, and traced the bite mark on Chance's shoulder with one finger.

"Okay, so maybe I have one or two," Chance conceded.

As Guerrero reached for the drawer, Chance stripped Guerrero's sweatpants away, pulling them down then kicking them off the rest of the way. Guerrero knelt between his legs and poured some lube from the bottle he'd found onto his fingers. Chance let his legs fall open, and Guerrero let out an involuntary moan at the way that Chance was just lying there, exposed and offering himself to him. He'd been kidding himself that he could ever refuse Chance. He'd been living with the thought of it for a while now, and the mere idea was enough to cause a dangerous distraction. Knowing that he could have had this with Chance, but that he'd pushed him away, would have been so much worse.

Guerrero took it slow, working one hand in a steady rhythm along the length of Chance's cock as he gently pressed one finger to his ass. Chance took a sharp intake of breath as Guerrero's finger slid inside him, but gradually he got used to the alien sensation. Guerrero added a second finger, and again Chance gasped. He waited for Chance to relax and acclimatise.

"You okay?"

Chance nodded.

Then Guerrero began to move his fingers, and Chance groaned as he found his prostate.

"Oh fuck…uh… fuck!"

Guerrero smiled as he watched Chance's face contort with surprise and pleasure, his hands clawing at the sheets as Guerrero twisted and scissored his fingers inside him, opening him up. By the time Guerrero added a third finger, Chance was moaning and pushing down onto his hand, fucking himself on Guerrero's fingers.

Guerrero had never been as hard in his life as he was watching Chance fall apart at that moment, moaning and grinding himself onto his hand. Guerrero handed him the bottle of lube, and Chance poured it into his hands and worked it over Guerrero's cock.

"Fuck! You're so hard," Chance murmured.

"Yeah, well that's all your fault," Guerrero smiled, withdrawing his fingers and pushing Chance back flat on the bed. He pushed Chance's legs up, until his knees were almost touching his shoulders, and lined himself up. Chance reached down and guided the head of Guerrero's cock to his ass, and slowly Guerrero pushed inside him.

At first, Chance found it was uncomfortable and even a little painful, and he had to force himself to relax as Guerrero slowly worked his cock deeper into him. He felt relieved when Guerrero finally bottomed out, his full length buried inside him, and he was surprised to find that the deep moaning sound he could hear was coming from his own mouth. Guerrero waited, giving Chance's body the chance to adjust.

Slowly, it changed from being strange and uncomfortable to feeling, if not completely natural, then at least so damn _right, _as if the last pencil-thin line drawn between them had been erased. Guerrero ran his hands over Chance's chest, with a look in his eyes that was something like awe. Chance reached for his hands and they laced their fingers together, palm-to-palm. Chance's knees were still drawn up against his body, and when Guerrero began to rock his hips slowly back and forth, Chance wrapped his legs around Guerrero's torso and let out another deep moan.

Guerrero pushed Chance's hands into the pillow either side of his head, taking some of his weight, their fingers still laced together as he tried to keep his thrusts slow and controlled. Chance was moaning wordlessly at every movement, but every now and then he'd groan Guerrero's name, and every time he did Guerrero found it harder to hold back, to keep it slow and easy for Chance.

When Guerrero shifted his position, kneeling with his legs a little further apart for better purchase, Chance bucked underneath him as the new angle drove Guerrero against his sweet spot.

_Now_ it felt natural and primal and insane and all kinds of crazy-intense that Chance couldn't find words for as his mind reeled, struggling with wave after wave of emotion and sensation. He wanted more. He wanted it harder, faster, deeper, and he wanted Guerrero to stop holding back. He wanted Guerrero to lose his mind the way he was losing his. But most of all he just wanted Guerrero…

"Fuck!" he moaned. "_Harder_! I'm not going to break…"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Guerrero lost what little control he had, driving into Chance hard and deep. He was lost now and he knew there was no way back from this. Chance was wrapped around him writhing and moaning his name over and over. They had finally claimed each other and there was no way out.

Guerrero was still gripping Chance's hands, pinning them to the bed, and Chance's cock lay hard and heavy against his stomach, weeping pre-cum. Chance felt everything fall away, until his whole existence was Guerrero's body surging with him, pushing him over the edge. His climax hit him hard, seemingly out of nowhere, without so much as his own hand to help the cum pulsing from his neglected cock, falling onto his chest and stomach. At first he couldn't even make a sound, and then his whole body shuddered and he found his voice as he moaned Guerrero's name.

Guerrero had managed to hold on, to fuck Chance through his orgasm, but hearing him moan his name like that was too much. His arms began to shake, and his thrusts lost all rhythm as he emptied himself into Chance with a wordless groan.

He finally released Chance's hands and slumped forward onto his chest. Chance wrapped his arms around him and they lay there, breathless and spent on the sweaty sheets. Eventually Guerrero found the energy to push himself off Chance, shifting to lie beside him, but still with Chance's arms wrapped around him.

"This changes things, Chance."

"I know."

"You can't mess around with clients anymore. You'll get us both killed."

"I know. And for the record: she kissed me."

"Whatever, dude. You're taken now."

Chance smiled. Coming from Guerrero, that was practically a declaration of love.

"You know, I might just have to do that to you some time," Chance said.

"And I might just let you," Guerrero replied.


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's note: As much as I'm enjoying writing this particular fic, I'm going to have to wrap it up soon before it turns into 'Chance and Guerrero: The Soap Opera!' Thank you to my lovely reviewers for all your comments and messages - you guys have been wonderful, and without you I probably wouldn't have thrown my laptop at the wall in despair over the temperamental traffic stats! Fingers crossed, they seem to be catching up again!**

**Also I'm touched by all the comments concerned about Guerrero having sex so soon after a concussion! Internet wisdom says that if he was feeling well enough to be interested in sex, he was probably good to go! If he wasn't, his body would er... 'let him know', and seeing as he was showing interest in the trouser department when Chance accosted him outside the bathroom, I think it's safe to say they both thought Guerrero was up to it!**

* * *

"Do you think we should tell them?" Chance asked.

"Tell who what?" Guerrero said, his voice slightly muffled due to the fact he was currently rummaging around at the back of the refrigerator, looking for something to eat.

"Tell the rest of the team, you know, about us."

Guerrero sighed and shut the fridge door. It seemed that the box of crackers Chance had given him last night were the last things in the building that were even remotely edible.

"Do you usually make a public service announcement every time you get laid?" Guerrero said, raising one eyebrow.

"Well, no," Chance said. "But this is different."

"Glad to hear it, dude. But why do you want to tell them? You want a coming out party or something?"

"What? No! I'm not gay anyway," Chance said, his neck turning pink as he started to blush.

Guerrero smiled. "I hate to break it to you, Chance, but you are totally gay for me."

"Yeah, but it's not like I'm attracted to other guys in general," Chance said, sounding flustered. "I mean, it's just you that I…. I mean normally I'm attracted to women. I love women… not that I'm interested in them right now. Now… I'm not interested in them, I'm interested in you, but that doesn't mean that I'm attracted to men…"

Guerrero laughed. "Are you sure you want to tell the others now? Because if that's your speech, it could use some work."

"Shit," Chance said, running his fingers through his hair, making it stick up at crazy angles. "I think I know what I want to say, but it comes out all wrong."

"I get it," Guerrero said, smiling at how dishevelled and hopeless Chance looked. "You can stop tying yourself in knots, trying to explain."

"How are you so calm about this?"

Guerrero shrugged. "I'm happy, you're happy. What's the big deal?"

"You've done this before. Got involved with another guy."

Guerrero nodded.

"So how come I didn't know about it?" Chance asked.

"Do you tell me about everyone you sleep with?"

"No, but…"

"It was a long time ago. Back when we were working for the Old Man, and you know how he felt about that kind of thing. I couldn't risk telling you."

"I'd never have sold you out!" Chance said, appalled by the suggestion. "How could you even think that?"

"This was back in the day, dude. You guys were tight. It doesn't matter now anyway."

"What happened?"

"I told you, it doesn't matter now."

Chance got the message and let the subject drop. When they'd been in bed together it had all seemed so simple, so logical, but now Chance realised that he wasn't really sure how to even behave around Guerrero anymore. He'd never usually ask Guerrero such personal questions, and Guerrero would never usually answer them, so there were definitely some new rules in play, Chance just wasn't sure what they were yet.

"You look like you're about to have an aneurism, dude."

"It's just… a lot to get my head round," Chance said, rubbing at his eyes. He didn't hear Guerrero move, but when he opened his eyes, he was standing right in front of him.

"Give it time." Guerrero put his hand on the back of Chance's neck and rubbed his thumb affectionately at the hair at the back of his head. "I'm not going anywhere. Well, maybe back to my place for some clean clothes. Maybe to the market too, 'cause there's fuck all left to eat here."

"You're not going anywhere," Chance said. He was reassured by Guerrero's affectionate gesture and slipped his arms around Guerrero's waist. "You have a concussion, remember? I'm supposed to be taking care of you."

Guerrero laughed. "Well, considering the way you 'took care of me' earlier, and the fact that it didn't make me relapse into a coma, I think I'm in the clear now."

"I can't take that chance," he said mock-seriously, tightening his grip. "I think I need to keep you under close observation."

"Do I really need to remind you that I know of at least six different ways of rendering you unconscious for the rest of the day that wouldn't even leave a mark?" Guerrero smirked.

"I thought you liked leaving your mark," Chance said. "I've got the bruises to prove it."

"Just shut up," Guerrero muttered, pulling his face down towards him and kissing him.

"Okay," Chance said. "That definitely makes things clearer."

"Good. Now are you going to feed me or what?"

* * *

In the end Guerrero begrudgingly let Chance drive him to the apartment in Northbeach to pick up a change of clothes. It was the only one of his apartments that Chance had been to before, and although Guerrero was fairly certain that Chance knew the locations of the properties he had scattered across the city, now didn't seem like a good time to spring anything new on him. He grabbed a bag full of the bare essentials whilst Chance got them lunch to go from a sandwich shop. They stopped at a corner store for a few staples like cereal and beer, which they agreed took care of the groceries.

Guerrero tucked into his sandwich on the drive back to the office, but Chance was going to have to wait. There was no way he could drive and eat at the same time, the sandwich he'd ordered was definitely a two-hander. So they sat in silence as Guerrero demolished a sandwich big enough to comfortably feed a family of four, and Chance was reassured that, despite the recent head trauma, there was nothing wrong with Guerrero's appetite.

"How are you feeling?" Chance asked glancing over at him.

"I'm fine. Quit fussing."

Chance smiled a little self-consciously and turned his attention back to the road.

"It's still bugging you, isn't it?" Guerrero asked. "The idea that you didn't know I was involved with another guy for a while."

Chance shrugged. He was struggling to get his head around the idea that Guerrero had not only slept with a guy before, but that it had been in the time that he'd known him, and from the sound of it, it had been an on-going thing, not just some random hook-up. He knew he should consider himself lucky that Guerrero had told him as much as he had, but the idea that there was this relationship that he'd known nothing about bothered him.

"I guess I want to know what happened," Chance said cautiously. Actually he wanted to know every single little detail, to fill in the blanks in his knowledge of Guerrero's past that he hadn't even known existed, until today.

"I ended it. I found out I couldn't trust him."

"When you say you ended it…"

"I killed him, okay? He betrayed my trust, trying to take advantage of a job I had going on the side and I had to kill him. That was the last time I got involved with another guy. I couldn't take that risk again. In fact, after that I was done with relationships period."

"Did I know him?" Chance asked. He couldn't stop running through all the people they'd worked with and for, trying to figure out who it could have been. He could see that Guerrero didn't really want to talk about it, but he just couldn't let it go.

"No, I don't think so," Guerrero frowned. "I get that this is difficult for you to process, but none of this is going to make it easier for you to get your head right. I've known I was bi for a long time, but this is new to you. You've got questions, I get that, but you're not going to find answers in my past."

Chance nodded. He knew Guerrero was right. Whoever he had been involved with in the past had nothing to do with what was going on here and now. There was no point being jealous of an ex-lover who'd been dead for years.

"I just want to ask you one more thing," Chance said.

"Okay," Guerrero said warily. "Shoot."

"Since then, have you slept with other men?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Guerrero stared out the window for a while, and Chance wondered if he'd gone to far.

"Being with a guy is… intense," he explained. "There's a level of trust required that is totally different from just banging some random chick."

"It means something to you," Chance said.

"Yeah, it does." Guerrero couldn't help laughing at the way Chance's face broke into a million watt grin. "Feeling a little bit smug there, dude?"

* * *

Chance was still grinning like a an idiot when they got back to the office, but Guerrero's content little smirk disappeared when they walked out of the elevator to find Winston and Ilsa were there talking to Alison Mcvey.

"Speak of the devil," Winston said.

"Mr Chance, Alison just stopped by to thank you for your assistance at the party last night," Ilsa said.

"I hope she's here to settle her bill too," Guerrero muttered, getting a sharp look from Ilsa.

"Don't mind him," Winston smiled, trying to smooth things over. "He's concussed."

"And whose fault is that?" Guerrero grumbled, pushing past them to get to the kitchen.

There was an awkward pause.

"Mr Chance," Alison said. "I was hoping that I might take you to lunch, as a thank you for all you've done for me."

"I've actually got plans for lunch," Chance said, holding up the bag containing his sandwich.

"Oh, well… Perhaps dinner then?" she persisted.

"Actually Alison, my colleague was quite badly hurt by one of your ex-husband's friends. He needs someone to keep an eye on him and it wouldn't be right for me to hit the town when he's still recuperating."

"I can keep I eye on Guerrero," Winston said, he's eyes wide with disbelief that Chance would seriously consider passing up the opportunity to have dinner again with the attractive actress.

"No dude, you really can't," Guerrero's voice called out from the kitchen.

"I'm sure we could make alternative arrangements for someone to keep an eye on Mr Guerrero so that you could enjoy a well deserved night out…" Ilsa said, ignoring Guerrero's objection.

"That won't be necessary, Ilsa. Thank you for the invitation, Alison," Chance said smiling politely, "but I think after last nights excitement, I'll be staying home for the foreseeable future."

Alison blushed as it finally sank in that she was being given the brush-off. Chance was willing to bet that it wasn't something she was used to being on the receiving end of.

"Well, I'm glad we were able to help you, Alison," Ilsa said, a bit too brightly. "I know it wasn't exactly an ideal outcome…"

"Huh," Chance grunted.

Ilsa gave him an odd look.

"Six dead - including two cops - and one of our team injured," Chance said. "I think that's a hell of a long way from ideal."

"Yes, well under the circumstances…" Ilsa said, before Chance interrupted her again.

"We would have been working under much better circumstances if Alison had informed us beforehand that her ex-husband had a gang of cronies who were likely to back him up." The colour drained from Alison's face as Chance spoke, leaving her looking grey and sullen. "You'll have to excuse me if I don't feel like celebrating."

Chance walked out to the kitchen before Ilsa could stop gaping at his rudeness. Winston was a little quicker off the mark.

"Chance takes the loss of life extremely seriously, Miss Mcvey…"

Guerrero was sipping a cup of tea when Chance walked into the kitchen and pulled up a chair.

"'Staying home for the foreseeable future'? Dude, that was harsh." Guerrero said. "I like it."

Chance flashed him a quick smile, before unwrapping his sandwich and getting stuck in. He had his mouth conveniently full when Ilsa stormed in a few minutes later, followed by Winston.

"Where the hell do you get off, talking to Alison like that? If you didn't want to have dinner with the poor girl, you only had to say!"

Chance pointed to his mouth, to indicate that he couldn't speak with a mouthful of food, whilst Guerrero sniggered into his mug of tea.

"Ilsa," Winston said in a soothing tone. "Chance could have been a bit more diplomatic but…"

"'A bit more diplomatic'! Really? You think so?"

"But, he has a point," Winston continued. "Six people died last night, and Alison turns up today, all sweetness and light, expecting to get a date? It's a little insensitive, don't you think? Especially as she used to be married to one of the men that died. I know she's your friend, but doesn't that strike you as a little bit callous?"

"Chance ought to sue her for sexual harassment in the work place," Guerrero added. "First she publicly mauls Chance when he's on the job, then she turns up here for a booty call? Not cool."

Chance almost choked on his sandwich.

Ilsa sighed and her indignation faded away, leaving her looking rather tired. "I suppose you're right. She is rather self-centred. I may have over-stated the case somewhat when I referred to her as a friend. I've met her on numerous occasions at various benefits, but I never really got to know her very well as a person. I shouldn't have asked you to take the case at such short notice, with such little information."

" Ah, don't worry about it. We've handled worse cases than that," Winston said reassuringly. "No real harm done."

"Seriously, dude? I get knocked out cold for twenty minutes and get dragged off in an ambulance to go see a freakin' doctor and that's 'no harm done'?" Guerrero said.

"Yeah, well you're still here and bitching about it, aren't you?" Winston said, deliberately baiting him.

Chance had swallowed his mouthful of sandwich, and he decided now was probably a good time to join the conversation before Winston and Guerrero really started arguing in earnest.

"Ilsa, you did the right thing in bringing us the case," he said. "If we hadn't been there, things could have been a lot worse."

"Thank you, Chance," she said. "I really needed to hear that. I'm sorry I snapped at you like that, it was uncalled for. I just hardly slept last night and… Oh Guerrero! I haven't even asked you how you're feeling! I'm so sorry!"

"I'm fine, Ilsa. Don't sweat it. I'll crash here for a couple of nights, just to be on the safe side, but I'm okay."

Ilsa nodded, but Winston frowned. "Did you just say 'to be on the safe side'? Don't tell me that a concussion finally knocked some common sense into that thick skull of yours!"

"It's no big deal," Guerrero shrugged. "I figured I'd have a movie marathon with Chance. Maybe check out the new releases on Netflix."

"If you think you're going to charge more rentals to my account, I'll…"

"You'll what?" Guerrero deadpanned. "Change your password to the name of a childhood pet? Favourite colour? Name of the street where you grew up?"

Ilsa sighed heavily, rubbing at her temples as if she had a headache coming on. "I think I really should go home and catch up on my sleep."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's note: This chapter is dedicated to Cedricsowner who suggested that the boys should almost, but not quite get caught out by one of the team. I think it's safe to say that this chapter is a great deal smuttier than what she had in mind! Enjoy ;)**

* * *

Chance finally called a truce between Guerrero and Winston by swearing that he wouldn't let Guerrero hack his Netflix account again. Winston still hung around the office for a couple of hours, under the guise of having paperwork related to the Mcvey case to deal with, but the way he kept a close eye on Guerrero every time he so much looked at his laptop gave away his real motivation for staying. In the end Chance got out a limited edition bluray boxset that wasn't even supposed to be available in the US yet, and once Winston was satisfied that Guerrero was more interested in the illegally imported boxset than hacking his account, he finally stopped procrastinating and went home.

Guerrero's concussion had a limited shelf life as an excuse for them spending time together, so they decided to make the most the few days they had without the rest of the team around. They watched movies together, talked, drank and played X-Box, all stuff that they would usually do together when time allowed. Guerrero understood that Chance needed the reassurance of the familiar, to be reminded that he wouldn't lose their friendship just because the nature of their relationship had changed.

Chance was beginning to realise that Guerrero was still the same person he'd always been and that the new side of him he was learning about took nothing away from the old. He found that Guerrero wasn't big on kissing though, unless it was a prelude to something more intimate, but he was physically affectionate in other ways. Scratching at the back of Chance's head and neck was an obvious favourite, especially when they were watching TV, but there were lots of other gestures too. Sometimes he'd stand behind Chance, his hands lightly gripping his hips whilst he rested his forehead against his back, which always reminded Chance of the very first night that things got physical between them. Most of the time it was more subtle than that, just random little touches and moments of contact that weren't strictly speaking necessary. Usually Guerrero would treat any invasion of his personal space with hostility, so the fact that he would find almost any excuse to touch Chance was significant. Chance soon learned to interpret these almost accidental touches as Guerrero's way of showing affection.

Guerrero, on the other hand, found that Chance loved kissing, any time, anywhere, as long as they were alone. It didn't have to lead to anything more for Chance to enjoy it, and if it didn't always make Guerrero so damn hard every time Chance slipped his tongue in his mouth, he would have been more than happy to indulge Chance to his heart's content. At first Guerrero wasn't sure that Chance really understood the reason why he sometimes avoided kissing him, but it didn't take long for Chance to catch on and shamelessly use it to his advantage.

More of a problem for Guerrero was Chance's tendency towards introspection. He knew Chance was worried about how they'd keep their relationship from the rest of the team, but anytime he caught him staring off into space, Guerrero would snap him out of it with a simple but effective kick to the shins.

"Jeez, why do you keep doing that?" Chance asked after a particularly hard kick that seemed to come out of nowhere.

"Basic conditioning technique, dude," Guerrero said. "Negative reinforcement. Every time I catch you obsessing over unimportant shit, I kick you. With a bit of luck, I'll have you trained out of it by the end of the month."

Chance looked at him for a moment, before shaking his head and laughing. He switched off the TV and turned to give Guerrero his full attention. "What about a little positive reinforcement?" Chance smiled. "I think you'll find I respond much better to a reward system."

"It's not open to negotiation," Guerrero said, trying to keep his expression neutral. Chance knew him too well to fall for it though, and he could see the glint in Guerrero's eyes, so he leaned in until their lips were almost but not quite touching. He could feel Guerrero's breathing get heavier, in anticipation of Chance kissing him, but Chance never quite closed the gap. Chance stared at Guerrero's lips and let out a soft moan, biting down on his own bottom lip, before suddenly standing up, leaving Guerrero practically panting on the couch.

"Well, let me know if you change your mind," Chance said casually. "I'll be in the shower."

He'd barely even made it out of the room before Guerrero caught up to him, shoving him against the wall and claiming the kiss that Chance had teased him with.

"Dude, I am going to make you pay for that!" Guerrero growled when they finally had to come up for air.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Chance protested with his best wide-eyed look of innocence. "But if you ask nicely, I might let you wash my back."

In next to no time they were in the bathroom, shedding clothes as fast as humanly possible. Out of habit, Chance kicked the door shut before turning on the shower, a task that was made a lot more complicated than usual by the fact that he couldn't move more than a couple of steps without Guerrero grabbing him and pulling him back into another kiss. Somehow he managed to get the water running at a bearable temperature and he dragged Guerrero under the spray with him. They were just beginning to explore the possibilities offered by Chance's shower gel, when they heard something that made Chance's blood run cold.

"Mr Chance? Are you there?" Ilsa's voice called out. "Guerrero? Is anybody home?"

"Ignore her," Guerrero muttered, grazing his teeth along Chance's collar bone as he dug his fingers into Chance's butt, enjoying the soapy slide of their bodies rubbing together.

"I can't, the door isn't even locked!" Chance hissed.

"She'll hear the water running. There's no way she'll just walk in on you having a shower."

Chance wavered for a moment, as Guerrero began stroking his cock with a soapy hand.

"Chance? Is that you in the shower?" Ilsa called, her voice much closer now. "I can't find Guerrero!"

"Fuck," Chance moaned, reluctantly pushing Guerrero's hand away. "I'll have to tell her something or she'll send out a search party for you!"

"Why?"

"I told her you were still getting headaches so we'd get a bit more time to ourselves. She probably thinks you've taken off on your own. If I don't do something she'll think that you're dead in a ditch somewhere!"

"You could always just tell her I'm in here with you," Guerrero smirked.

"Or I could stick my head around the door and tell her to check downstairs while I get dressed."

"And then what? I magically appear out of nowhere with wet hair? Don't you think that might seem a bit suspicious?"

"Not as long as she thinks you used the shower right after I did."

"Chance?" Ilsa was right outside the bathroom door now.

Guerrero rolled his eyes as Chance stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel, hastily wrapping it around his waist before opening the bathroom door just enough to poke his head out.

"Ilsa, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Oh, I didn't mean to…" Ilsa said, blushing. "You're all… um… wet."

"Yeah, that happens when I take a shower," Chance smiled.

"I just…um…" Ilsa's thoughts stalled for a moment. She couldn't see much of Chance, just his head and part of his chest, the rest of him was hidden from view by the bathroom door, but what she could see was enough to make her wonder whether he was completely naked or if he had stopped to pick up a towel… She shook her head and tried to focus on the reason she'd got him out of the shower in the first place. "I wanted to check in with Guerrero. If he's still having headaches he really ought to go back to see Dr Dematteo, but I can't find him."

"Don't worry, Ilsa he's around." As Chance spoke felt Guerrero's hands running up the back of his legs. He was certain that Ilsa couldn't even see the lower half of his body, but it was very distracting nonetheless. "Did you check downstairs?" Chance tried to keep his voice even as Guerrero's hands slid under his towel and began travelling up the back of his thighs.

"Yes, but he's definitely not there," Ilsa frowned. "You don't think he's got behind the wheel of a car do you? He may not even be safe to drive yet!"

"No, I'm sure he's still here, somewhere," Chance said, struggling to sound even halfway normal as Guerrero's hands reached his ass and firmly spread his cheeks. _What the hell is he playing at?_ Chance wondered. "Why don't you check to see if the Eldo is still there?" _Holy fuck! Was that his tongue?_

"Oh, I didn't think of that!" Ilsa said, completely oblivious to what was going on behind the bathroom door. "Are you okay? You look a little flushed."

"Yes! I'm fine!" Chance said, his voice sounding a little strained. He was trying to use the hand that wasn't holding up his towel to push Guerrero away, but all that happened was that Guerrero backed off just long enough to give his fingers a warning bite, before turning his attention back to Chance's ass. "The water is running…uh, a little hot, that's all. Give me five… er… maybe ten minutes, and I'll come help you find him." Chance didn't even wait for Ilsa to reply before he slammed the door and collapsed against it. Guerrero sunk his teeth into Chance's right buttock with an affectionate nip, before grabbing his hips and turning him around to face him.

"What the…?" Chance started to ask but Guerrero quietly shushed him. Ilsa was still standing by the door.

When they heard her footsteps fade away, Guerrero grinned up at Chance from his position, kneeling on the floor.

"Payback, dude."

Guerrero knew that they didn't have much time, so he decided not to waste any more of it on talking. Chance was leaning against the door, looking stunned by what Guerrero had been doing to him whilst he was trying to talk to Ilsa. It wasn't as though he objected to what he'd done, far from it, but the timing was downright sadistic. He was still struggling with the words to tell Guerrero that he wouldn't be adverse to him trying that move again, sometime when they were really alone, when Guerrero completely derailed his last semblance of rational thought by taking Chance's cock in his mouth and proceeding to suck him off.

Chance didn't last long, not after what Guerrero had been doing to him behind the bathroom door, and he came hard and fast into Guerrero's mouth. He was dimly aware, as dazed as he was, that Guerrero was jerking off, and a minute or two later, Guerrero groaned, leaning heavily against Chance's legs as his cum fell hot and thick over his hand, spilling onto the already treacherously slippery bathroom floor.

The last thing Chance felt like doing was talking to Ilsa, but he'd left himself with no other option. He hauled Guerrero to his feet and pulled him back under the spray of the shower. They carefully washed away the last traces of shower gel from each others bodies, as well as any evidence of what they'd been doing together. They shared an all too brief kiss before Chance reluctantly climbed out of the shower and turned the water off. He hurriedly dried himself off and re-dressed, leaving Guerrero with instructions to wait ten minutes, then turn the shower on again.

Chance was feeling distinctly light-headed as he walked down the stairs into the office in a post-orgasmic fuzz. He'd just poured himself a coffee when he heard the arrival of the elevator. He went to meet Ilsa as she walked into the office.

"The Eldo is still in the garage," she said. "Did you find him?"

"Yeah, he was on the roof."

"On the roof? What an earth for?"

Chance shrugged. "I guess he wanted some fresh air."

"Well, where is he now?"

"Judging from the way he was grumbling about me hogging the bathroom, I think he's taking a shower."


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's note: Sorry for the delay but I had to finish Cargo, it was bugging me!**

* * *

Ilsa wasn't surprised that, when faced with the threat of a return visit to the doctor, Guerrero swore he was in perfect health. He blamed his extended sick leave on Chance downloading a new expansion pack for Call of Duty, and the round the clock Xbox tournament that ensued. She would have preferred for him to see Dr Dematteo again, but she'd had enough experience in dealing with Guerrero to know that it was never going to happen.

"Fine. As everyone seems to be the picture of health, I shall let Winston know that we are accepting new cases. I dare say that he has had requests for referrals through his police contacts. As of tomorrow, it will be business as usual."

Although Ilsa never actually berated them of goofing off, there was a hint of disapproval in her clipped tones, and Chance felt a tiny pang of guilt about lying to her. Guerrero felt no such compunction. He'd enjoyed the rare opportunity to spend some time with Chance, and it was nobody's business but theirs what they got up to.

"Oh, and Chance?" Ilsa said, pausing on her way to the elevator. "Don't forget that you have promised to give Ames some more self-defence classes. I'll see to it that she is here bright and early tomorrow morning, ready for her next lesson."

Chance had, of course, forgotten. "Not a problem, Ilsa," he smiled, despite the fact that he could think of at least a dozen other things he'd rather do with his time. "Looking forward to it."

Ilsa gave him a cynical look. "Then I shall see you both tomorrow."

Guerrero waited until she had left before turning to Chance and saying, "You're on your own with that, dude. There's no way I'm spending my morning as your practice dummy again."

"Oh, come on! It wasn't that bad, was it?"

"There is no way you can reasonably expect me to train with Ames. Accidents happen, Chance. You know that."

Chance narrowed his eyes. "You have more control and precision than anyone else I've ever sparred with."

"Which would put you in a really difficult situation with Ilsa if you had to explain how I came to break Ames' jaw," Guerrero smirked. "Just imagine, Ames with her jaw wired shut. That's enough to make anyone slip up…"

"Fine," Chance said, shaking his head. He knew that Guerrero was kidding. Probably. Almost definitely.

"I've got stuff I need to do anyway, dude. I can't just hole up here indefinitely. Business doesn't take care of itself."

"I know," Chance said. "you do what you've got to do, and I'll handle Ames."

* * *

Teaching Ames to fight turned out to be a lot easier without Guerrero undermining her confidence with snarky remarks every few minutes. She was a quick study and seemed keen to learn what she could from Chance. He was impressed by her focus and willingness to learn, both things that she seemed to lack when Guerrero was around. Although it had always been obvious to the whole team that Ames annoyed the hell out of Guerrero, Chance realised that they may have underestimated just how on edge Ames was in his company. He made a mental note to talk to Ilsa and Winston about it. Ames seemed to like tailing Guerrero all the time, but perhaps that wasn't the most productive use of her time.

As he guided Ames through ways to deal with frontal attacks, his mind started to wander back to Guerrero. He was fairly sure that he'd been joking about breaking Ames' jaw, although Chance had to agree that, from Guerrero's stand-point, he could see the appeal. Passing off anything Guerrero did as accidental was definitely out of the question though. The incident with the baseball bat on the Mcvey case was an anomaly for Guerrero, he always looked out for number one, which is why the incident had scared Chance half to death. The fact that he had maintained consciousness for long enough to take the guy out and give Chance the heads up was much more typical of Guerrero though, maintaining control even in what should have been an impossible situation.

Chance couldn't help smiling at the thought of how he'd learned to test Guerrero's control over his own body. It was easy enough to provoke the response he wanted from Guerrero, and yet somehow Guerrero always managed to stay in control of the situation, setting the pace and calling the shots. Chance decided that was something he was definitely going to work on. It wasn't enough to just goad Guerrero into doing what he wanted. Chance wanted Guerrero to hand that control over to him, completely and willingly…

"Chance?" Ames waved her hand in front of his face a couple of times, until his attention snapped back to the present. "You okay? You totally spaced out for a second there!"

"Sorry," Chance said, shaking his head.

"So?"

"So what?"

Ames rolled her eyes. "What's her name?"

"Who?"

"Whoever it is who's put that goofy look on your face!" she said, exasperated as if it was obvious what she was asking about.

"Er, no one!" Chance said, looking distinctly shifty.

"Yeah, right," Ames scoffed. "When a guy looks like that, there's always a woman involved. Is it Ilsa?"

"What? No!"

"Hmm. I guess I believe you. But only because she's been spending a lot of time with Winston lately."

"Seriously?" Chance asked. "Winston and Ilsa have a thing?"

"Why? You jealous?" she asked, poking her tongue out.

"No, she can have him. I don't mind." Chance could have kicked himself. He really didn't want her to consider the possibility of him being attracted to men, even in the context of a joke.

"Oh please! Like you never noticed the way she used to look at you?" Chance shrugged. "Besides, a prime piece of man meat like you is all about the ladies! I can't even joke about you being with another guy, especially Winston! It would be a criminal waste."

Chance could do nothing about the heat creeping up his neck to his face. He was blushing, but he hoped Ames would put it down to her calling him a prime piece of man meat rather than the topic of conversation skating uncomfortably close to the truth, that he was attracted to a male co-worker, just not the one they were talking about.

"Jesus, Ames! Don't you have anything better to do than play fantasy match-maker?"

"Okay, so if it's not Ilsa, who could it be?" Ames pondered it for a moment. "It's not…?"

"No!" Chance snapped, as Ames pointed a finger at herself. "There is no woman, got it?"

"Someone's put that smile on your face…"

"Just drop it!" He said, walking out of the storeroom.

"Huh. Guess the lesson is over then."

Walking out on Ames wasn't exactly a subtle way of dealing with her nosiness. Chance was beginning to see that hiding his relationship with Guerrero was going to be a lot more difficult than he'd thought. At first he'd felt as though he ought to tell them because it seemed wrong to hide something that would have an impact on the team's dynamics. Now he was worried that it may not even be possible to hide the relationship from Ames' eagle-eyed scrutiny, and Winston was a detective! Surely he'd start to piece it together eventually too? The whole situation was beginning to make his head ache.

He thought back to something Guerrero had said.

"_I'm happy. You're happy. What's the big deal?"_

If only it really was that simple.

* * *

"You're over-thinking it, Chance," Guerrero said. "It really is that simple. If you want it to be."

Chance sighed and reached for his beer on the nightstand next to him. He gone over to Guerrero's apartment in Northbeach with a six-pack of beers and every intention to have a serious conversation about how they were going to deal with keeping things quiet, but somehow they'd ended up in bed before he could even raise the subject. Trying to talk it through with Guerrero naked next to him in bed was not quite what he'd had in mind, not that he was complaining.

"I don't know that we'll be able to keep this secret though," Chance said. "Ames has already figured out that I'm seeing someone."

"Seriously?" Guerrero chuckled. "That's why your tying yourself up in knots again? Because of Ames?"

"She's not stupid, Guerrero. She'll figure it out. Or Winston will. Or Ilsa."

"So what?"

"So, it's going to make things complicated!"

"Dude, life is always complicated. I've got a kid with a woman who already hates me. Can you imagine the scale of the freak-out she'll have if she knows about us?"

"Keeping it from her is going to be a hell of a lot easier than keeping it from the people we work with though," Chance said, feeling guilty that he hadn't even considered that their relationship could impact Guerrero's situation with his kid.

Guerrero sighed. "The fewer people know about us the better."

"Agreed."

"I just don't think it's going to be the end of the world if Ames or Winston or Ilsa figures out we're sleeping together."

"But hiding it is messing with my head!"

"So we tell them! What's the worst that can happen?" Guerrero said.

Chance didn't reply. He just stared at his beer bottle as if it had all the answers.

"You still haven't got your head around this, have you?" Guerrero asked.

"No, I… I don't know." Chance admitted.

"You've got regrets?"

Chance looked up, meeting his eyes. "About us? None." He could see the relief in Guerrero's eyes as he smiled.

"Then right now, we don't have a problem." Guerrero got up and slipped on his jeans before rooting through a pile of papers in his nightstand. "The only thing we need to decide right now is whether to order Thai or pizza."


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's note: Just one more chapter after this one. Two max. Here be smut...**

* * *

Guerrero ignored the look of amusement on Chance's face as he phoned through their order to the pizza place and insisted that he would pick up the food himself rather than take advantage of their free delivery. It may have been a trivial thing, but Guerrero never had anything delivered to his apartment when he could pick it up himself. Keeping a low profile was more than just a habit to Guerrero, it was a necessity, which was why Chance's determination to tell the rest of the team was driving him nuts. It was none of their business if he and Chance had something going on, but Guerrero had to let Chance believe that he didn't care if they knew or not. Chance had never ever slept with another guy before, so Guerrero had to maintain that it was no big deal, otherwise he'd never know if Chance was just getting off on the idea of sneaking around. He had to know that Chance wanted him regardless of whether or not the team knew.

Chance waited at the apartment whilst Guerrero went to pick up the food. When he returned Chance was sat in front of the TV, watching the highlights of a football game that, judging from the slightly bored look on his face, he cared nothing about. He was obviously lost in thought again. Guerrero sighed and sat next to him on the couch. When Chance didn't so much as acknowledge his presence, Guerrero went to kick him, but Chance anticipated the move and stamped his foot down on Guerrero's.

"The negative reinforcement thing is getting a bit old, Guerrero," he said, not taking his eyes off the TV screen. "You don't need to freak out every time I'm thinking about things."

"I'm not freaking out," Guerrero said, opening the pizza boxes and handing Chance his.

"No? Then why do you keep kicking me?" Chance said, turning to face him. "Are you worried that if I have a chance to stop and think about this I'll change my mind?"

"No," Guerrero lied.

"You really think I'd risk fucking things up between us if I wasn't sure this is what I want?"

Guerrero looked at him. He had to admit that Chance was relaxed and seemed to be completely open with him. There was no sign of hesitation or deception. Chance was a good liar, but not that good, especially in front of Guerrero, who could read even the slightest hint of a tell in his expression or voice. There was nothing to tell him that Chance was being anything but completely honest with him. Finally Guerrero let his guard down and did nothing to hide the heartfelt smile that crept onto his face. Chance laughed and shook his head, breaking the tension.

They sat in companionable silence and ate their food as the TV droned on in the background. Chance was still obviously thinking about something other than football or pizza, but unless Chance raised the subject himself, Guerrero was content just to leave him to his thoughts. He was a bit bored with the whole tell the team/don't tell the team argument going on endlessly. Chance would figure it out on his own eventually anyway.

Putting a stop to all the shin kicking was definitely progress, Chance decided. Guerrero was always going to be a control freak, but there was no need for his shins to take the brunt of it all the time. Maybe he'd been looking at the whole issue of telling the team from the wrong angle. He'd been so busy worrying about how the team would react that he hadn't even considered what the consequences would be for Guerrero. He wasn't quite sure that he believed Guerrero's assertions that he didn't care one way or the other if the team knew. Guerrero liked his private life kept private, so letting the team know he was seeing anyone at all would be out of character, and that was what was puzzling Chance. Why would he even consider letting Chance tell the team?

Okay, so there were some obvious benefits to telling them. They wouldn't have to sneak around for a start, but secrecy was a way of life for Guerrero, what was one more secret to him? They'd agreed that the fewer people knew about them, the better, so it wasn't like Guerrero could be openly possessive every time a client got flirty with Chance. So if it wasn't to make their lives easier, or to mark his territory, why was Guerrero so blasé about telling the team?

Chance eventually came to the conclusion that the only explanation was more to do with Guerrero himself than anyone else. Their relationship was a big deal, to both of them, but maybe Guerrero was the one who was risking the most by getting involved with an erstwhile heterosexual man. All this was new to Chance, but Guerrero had been burned before. The team was the closest thing to friends or family either of them had had since leaving the Old Man, perhaps ever. Chance didn't want Guerrero to think that he was in any way ashamed of what they were doing, so maybe telling the team would be a way to show Guerrero that he was serious about him, and that the team just had to accept it.

That thought didn't quite sit right with Chance either. If Guerrero needed him to show him that this was serious, it wouldn't be achieved by some grand gesture like announcing they were a couple. It would need something much more private, something personal and meaningful to just them. Chance knew they'd have to say something to the team at some point, but first they both needed to know what they were doing was about more than cheap thrills.

Simply telling Guerrero how he felt was definitely out of the question. Not only was he spectacularly bad at expressing himself when it came to his feelings, Guerrero was unlikely to even let him try.

Chance let out a deep sigh.

"What's up?" Guerrero asked.

"Just kick me," Chance said. "It's so much easier."

* * *

Chance continued to give Ames what Ilsa insisted on calling 'self-defence classes' on most mornings. The truth was that Ames had impressed Chance with the ease which she was picking up what he taught her, and he'd decided to start teaching her some offensive moves too. She was never going to win any prize fights, but given the right instruction she'd be able to hold her own against most average sized opponents, especially if they weren't expecting her to put up much of a fight.

It only took Winston a couple of days to find their next case: a man who'd breeched the conditions of his witness protection deal in order to attend the wedding of his youngest daughter. As the case that he'd been testifying in was already over, he didn't get much sympathy from the US Marshals service. They'd cut him loose when he'd returned to see his family, and it hadn't taken long for the word to get out that he was back in town. His testimony had been enough to get his former boss put away for murder, but unfortunately there had been insufficient evidence to secure a conviction against the man's brother, who was extremely well-connected with some very dangerous people.

It wasn't really a challenging case. They just had to keep the client safe whilst Winston's contacts at SFPD put together a case against the brother that would ensure he was in deep enough trouble that it wasn't worth anyone's while to stick their neck out for him by going after the client. Guerrero dug up more dirt in a matter of hours than the police had managed in months, so it was really just a case of delivering the intel in such a way that it would be admissible in court. That took a little more time, but all in all the case was wrapped up in a matter of days.

Chance and Guerrero didn't see much of each other when they were working the case. There always seemed to be someone else around, usually Ames who still tended to attach herself like a limpet to Guerrero whenever they had a case. Chance was always particularly wary around her, as she was convinced he was seeing someone and was determined to find out who.

He realised that he may have over compensated a little when it came to the end of the case though. He'd been trying so hard not to act differently around Guerrero that he'd given the others the impression that he was angry with him. When Guerrero declined the offer of a drink with the rest of the team to celebrate the end of the case, Ilsa and Ames gave him pointed looks.

"What?" Chance asked, bemused by their strange behaviour.

"You could have asked him to stay," Ames said. "He's worked his ass off on this one."

"He probably just has stuff to do," Chance shrugged.

"I don't know what's gone on between the two of you, Chance, but you need to sort it out," Ilsa said. "You can't keep giving him the cold shoulder like that. It's not fair."

_Okay_, Chance thought, _I've definitely pitched this all wrong if Ilsa is siding with Guerrero._

"Guerrero's a big boy, Ilsa," Winston said. "He doesn't need you fighting his battles for him."

"That's not the point, Winston," she said. "We are supposed to work as a team and anyone can see that there's something wrong here. As it is Chance who seems to be ignoring Guerrero, it's obvious that he should be the one to put it right!"

"Fine!" Chance said, snatching up the bottle of scotch that they'd been drinking. "I go see him and apologise. Happy?" He stormed out of the room before anyone had a chance to question his uncharacteristic outburst. It seemed easier to play along with the fiction that he and Guerrero had had some kind of row than to try and convince them that nothing was wrong.

He'd driven about halfway to Guerrero's apartment before it struck him that it was probably a good idea to let him know he was coming and check that he was even home.

Guerrero picked up on the second ring.

"Hey dude."

"Hey, I'm on my way over. Is that cool?"

"Sure."

"And, well… I may have accidentally given the others the impression that we had some kind of row."

"Okay."

"So, I'm supposed to be on my way over to apologise and, you know, make it up to you." Chance thought he heard a muffled chuckle.

"Yeah, you might have overdone the whole playing it cool thing."

"So it seems."

"I'm sure we can work something out." Guerrero hung up.

* * *

When Guerrero opened the door to Chance, he was obviously still amused by the misunderstanding at the office. He took the bottle of scotch from Chance and indicated with a smile and a tilt of his head that he should come in.

"You want a drink?" Guerrero asked, following Chance back into the apartment.

"Not really," Chance shrugged. Guerrero put the bottle down on the coffee table.

"So isn't this the part when you're supposed to make it up to me?" Guerrero said, with just a hint of a smile.

"Ugh, just don't," Chance said, shaking his head. "I have no idea what I'm going to say to them tomorrow. I kind of stormed out of the office."

Guerrero laughed. "We'll think of something."

"I'm not sure keeping this quiet is going to be an option for much longer," Chance said.

"That's your call, dude," Guerrero said, his smile giving way to a more serious expression.

"Do you trust me?" Chance asked.

"What the hell kind of question is that?"

"I just… Forget it, okay? It's a stupid question."

For a moment Guerrero was angry that Chance could even consider questioning his trust, and bile rose sickeningly in his throat. But then he took in the pained look on Chance's face, and it dawned on him that his trust was never really in question, it was just Chance's awkward way of asking for reassurance.

Guerrero cupped his hand around the back of Chance's neck and drew his head towards him until his forehead rested against his own. "Of course I trust you, you fuckwit," he said, rubbing his thumb against the side of Chance's neck.

Chance sighed. "I know. I just wanted to hear you say it."

It didn't take much, just a slight shift in the angle at which he was holding his head, to bring Chance's lips in contact with Guerrero's. The spark between them soon flared up, fanned by the frustrations of several days of forced abstinence as they worked the case. The kiss was hot and urgent and a little rough as Chance slipped his hands beneath Guerrero's undershirt and dragged his fingers over the broad expanse of his back, pressing their bodies together. Guerrero released his grip on Chance's neck to pull his t-shirt off over his head, forcing them to break the kiss. As soon as the t-shirt was out of the way, Guerrero ran his hands over Chance's chest, pausing to pinch his nipples hard as he bit down at the juncture where his neck met his shoulder.

Chance moaned and slid his hands down to grab Guerrero's ass. His mouth found Guerrero's earlobe and he sucked at it for a moment before biting it and growling a single word: "Bed."

Guerrero smiled and pushed Chance away, slipping off his undershirt as he walked to the bedroom. He didn't need to look behind him to see if Chance was following him. As soon as he dropped his shirt to the floor he felt his arms slide around his waist, and Chance's hands reached to unbuckle his belt. By the time Guerrero reached the bed Chance was biting and sucking at his neck as one hand slipped into his jeans, gripping his cock, working it in a firm, steady rhythm. Guerrero pressed his ass into Chance's crotch, and for a moment they just stood at the side of the bed, shirtless and breathless, Chance's arms wrapped around him, with one hand in Guerrero's jeans.

"Chance…" Guerrero murmured, reaching behind him and gripping Chance's hips, encouraging him to grind harder against him.

Chance groaned at the increased friction, and began pushing Guerrero's jeans down. He turned him round and pushed him back on to the bed, dragging his jeans off the rest of the way. Guerrero ditched his glasses on the nightstand and lay back on the bed, propped up on his elbows, and waited whilst Chance stripped of the rest of his clothes. He was tempted to put his glasses back on so he could see the definition of Chance's muscular body more clearly, but as soon as the thought occurred to him, Chance was on top of him. He nudged Guerrero's legs apart, and took some of his weight on his arms as he kissed him hard, licking deep into his mouth. Guerrero ran his hands up Chance's arms, digging his fingers into his biceps and arching his hips off the bed to grind their bodies together.

Chance took a sharp intake of breath as Guerrero's hard-on rubbed against his own, before pressing him back onto the bed and wrapping a hand round both cocks and working them together. Chance began kissing his way along Guerrero's jaw, until he reached his neck, where he gently bit and sucked at the exposed flesh.

"Fuck…" Guerrero moaned, clawing at Chance's biceps.

Chance began kissing and nipping at Guerrero collarbone, letting his own cock slide free of his hand but still stroking Guerrero's. His kisses trailed further down his chest, pausing to bite and suck at Guerrero's nipples before licking his way down across the muscles of his abdomen, which tensed with anticipation as Chance mouth worked its way further down his body.

Chance took care to look Guerrero in the eye as his tongue licked along the length of his cock, slow and hard before taking it into his mouth. Guerrero cried out as Chance gripped his hips, drawing from him a string of curses and half-formed words of encouragement as Chance's mouth took him deeper. Chance's tongue alternated between light little swipes across the tip of his dick and long broad licks up his shaft, accompanied with just the right amount of suction to make Guerrero throw back his head and moan.

Abruptly, Chance's mouth was gone. Guerrero hadn't even remembered closing his eyes, but when he opened them again he saw Chance standing by the bed with a bottle of lube in his hand.

"This is why I had to ask," Chance said. "Why I needed to hear you say it."

Guerrero nodded, showing him that he understood.

Chance smiled. "Is it..?"

"I trust you," Guerrero interrupted, sitting up and grabbing Chance's wrist, pulling him back towards the bed. Chance knelt between Guerrero's legs and Guerrero took the bottle from his hand. He opened it and poured some lube into Chance's hand, before discarding the bottle on the bed beside them and pulling Chance's face towards him and pressing their lips together in a gentle, unhurried kiss.

Guerrero guided Chance's fingers between his legs and Chance pushed him back on to the bed, leaning over him so as not to lose the contact of Guerrero's lips on his. He pressed one finger lightly against Guerrero's ass, and he responded by drawing his legs up and letting his knees fall further apart. Encouraged by Guerrero's response he pushed a little harder and Guerrero moaned as he felt Chance's finger slide inside him.

Chance sat back on his heels and watched Guerrero's face as he fingered him. He couldn't believe how relaxed Guerrero was, his body accepting the intrusion of Chance's finger with no sign of the tension or resistance Chance had felt when their roles had been reversed. He ran his free hand across Guerrero's belly as he slid a second finger in besides the first. It took a little experimentation to find the right angle, but when he hit Guerrero's sweet spot he knew straight away.

"Oh fuck! Fuck… Chance…."

Chance smiled as he finally saw Guerrero lose control and give in entirely to what Chance was doing to him, lying helpless and writhing on the bed. Every muscle in his arms and shoulders seemed to stand out as his hands clawed at the sheets beneath him. Chance found the bottle of lube and poured it directly onto his cock, gasping as the cold sensation as it oozed over him. He wanted to make sure Guerrero was properly prepared, so he withdrew his fingers and added a little more lube before working three fingers carefully inside him, whilst he slicked up his own erection. When he withdrew his fingers again, Guerrero moaned, and the sound sent a fresh surge of blood straight to Chance's cock. He shifted his position slightly, and pushed Guerrero's knees towards his shoulders, trying to recreate the position they'd used before, only with him on top this time.

Chance watched Guerrero's face as he guided his cock inside him, not wanting to miss a moment of what he was feeling, but as he felt the smooth tight heat of his ass envelop him, it was all he could do to remember to breathe.

"Fuck…" Chance groaned as he bottomed out. He didn't trust himself to move at first, but Guerrero grabbed at his ass, encouraging him to slowly rock his hips. Gradually they built up to a slow, deep, grinding rhythm. Guerrero was moaning Chance's name over and over, making it harder for Chance to hold back. He tried kissing him into silence, but even then Guerrero kept moaning and digging his fingers into the flesh of Chance's ass. It was almost too much, so he pulled back for a moment, struggling to catch his breath.

Guerrero looked confused for a moment, but smiled as Chance rolled him over to lie on his front.

"Get on your knees," Chance growled. Guerrero did as he was told, but Chance reached in front of him, shoving the pillows onto the floor and pushing him to kneel at the head of the bed. He took Guerrero's hands and placed them on the wall in front of him, murmuring the words "keep them there" in his ear.

He was surprised that Guerrero was so compliant, accepting his instructions without question, but he seemed to sense that Chance needed this right now, to be in control. Chance planted a kiss on Guerrero's back, between his shoulder blades, and Guerrero actually shivered at the light touch of Chance's lips against his skin. He moaned as Chance entered him again, harder and faster this time. Chance wrapped one arm around Guerrero's waist and splayed the other hand against his chest, pulling his body down to meet his thrusts.

Guerrero couldn't even shape his groans into words any more as Chance thrust inside him. He tried to reach for his own cock, to match Chance's rhythm with his own hand, but Chance grabbed his hand and forced it back onto the wall in front of them, covering it with his own.

"Not yet," Chance moaned. He was so close, and he wanted them to come together. When he felt the build up of tension that meant he wasn't going to be able to hold back much longer, he released Guerrero's hand and reached for his cock, working his hand to match his thrusts as best he could.

"Guerrero… fuck…" Chance groaned as he finally tipped over he edge, his vision whiting out as the force of his orgasm ripped through his body. A second later Guerrero let out a deep, shuddering moan as he came over Chance's hand.

Chance's legs seemed to be shaking of their own accord as he withdrew and sat back heavily on his heels. Guerrero was a little unsteady too, as he turned around and slumped back on to the bed. They sat there for a moment facing each other waiting for the air to return to the room. Slowly they both broke out in wide grins.

"Fuck," Chance said.

"Yeah," Guerrero replied.

There didn't seem to be anything else to say, so Guerrero stretched out on the bed and pulled Chance down beside him, and they soon settled into a familiar position, Chance resting his head on Guerrero's chest, with one arm draped over his waist.


	20. Chapter 20

As Chance slowly started to wake up, something in the quality of the light hitting his eyelids reminded him that he wasn't in his own bed at the loft. He was struggling to remember where he was, and whether his current location was cause for alarm, when a familiar scent seeped into his consciousness: Guerrero. He stretched his limbs languidly, and opened his eyes with a satisfied smile on his face as he remembered where he was, and what they had been doing the night before.

"I wondered when you were going to wake up," Guerrero said. He was leaning in the doorway with a paper bag in one hand and a take-out cup in the other. "I didn't have coffee so I grabbed you some when I went out to get breakfast. You might need to nuke it now though."

"What time is it?" Chance asked, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Nine thirty."

"Shit! I was supposed to meet Ames at the office at nine!"

"You were out for the count, dude." Guerrero passed him the coffee and the paper bag, which Chance was pleased to find contained fresh bagels. Guerrero watched as Chance wolfed one down.

"Well, last night was… intense," Chance said with a smile that hovered between nervous and slightly smug. He took a sip of the coffee and found that it was tepid at best. He wondered if Guerrero had been standing there watching him sleep as his coffee got cold. It was an odd thought.

"Last night should never have happened," Guerrero said. "None of this should have. I don't get _involved_ with people, you know that."

Chance looked at him for a moment, then put the coffee and the remaining bagel down carefully on the nightstand, and turned away from him, reaching for his clothes. He slipped into his jeans, and headed for the door with the rest of his clothes and his shoes tucked under his arm.

"Message received," he said, trying to push past Guerrero. "I get it."

Guerrero refused to let him past, blocking the doorway with his body. "No, I don't think you do. I could keep trying to kick some sense into you, but that doesn't seem to be working too well. I'm trying to tell you that, as insane as all this is, as much as it goes against what has kept the both of us alive, I'm in."

"You're in?" Chance repeated, frowning.

"Yeah, I'm all in. But we cannot fuck this up. Fucking up is not an option."

A smile started to spread across Chance's face as he realised what Guerrero was saying. "You want this? Us? Like, permanently?"

"Christ, you've been spending way to much time with Ames. You're starting to sound like her!" Guerrero grumbled, shaking his head, although Chance could see he was trying not to smile. "Yes! So help me… I want you on a permanent basis! You really think I'd have let last night happen if I didn't?"

Chance was grinning now. "Well, I wasn't sure…"

"Which is why I thought I'd set the record straight."

"So to speak."

Guerrero rolled his eyes at the pun. "Just no more staring off into space, okay? You have no excuse now, and daydreaming is likely to get us both killed!"

"Understood," Chance said, dropping his clothes on the floor, and sliding his arms around Guerrero's waist. "Right now, I could use a shower and we did get interrupted last time…"

"I already showered," Guerrero said, trying to ignore the temptation of a semi-naked Chance kissing his neck in a very persuasive fashion.

"So?"

"I don't need another shower," Guerrero murmured half-heartedly as Chance worked his belt loose. "And we're already running late."

"So why not be really late?" Chance said leaning in, kissing him on the mouth to prevent any further argument. Guerrero's token resistance failed as Chance slipped his hand into his pants.

Chance abruptly pulled back. "You know how I feel, right?" Chance said. "I want this too. I'm just not big on the whole talking about it thing."

"For fucks sake, Chance!" Guerrero groaned. "Yeah, I get it! Just shut up and get in the goddamn shower!"

* * *

It was shortly after midday when they finally made it in to the office. Guerrero had given in to Chance's request to join him in the shower, and they took their time. After a mumbled request from Chance for Guerrero to repeat 'that thing' with his tongue, things got quite heated and they almost didn't make it to the office at all. It was only when Chance picked up his cell phone and saw that there were thirty-four missed calls from the office, and both Ilsa's and Winston's cells, that Chance reluctantly conceded that it was about time that they put on some clothes and show their faces.

"I suppose as far as they're concerned, we had a row," Chance said. "I guess they're assuming the worst. I probably shouldn't have left my cell on silent."

Guerrero snorted. "Dude, there was no way you were taking any calls this morning!"

"Yeah," Chance grinned. "I know."

Although they knew that the others must be worried, neither of them was quite prepared for Ilsa waiting for them, arms crossed and clearly furious, when they stepped out of the elevator.

"Thank god!" she said. "I thought you two had killed each other! Chance, you were so angry when you left yesterday, and when Winston told me that your bed hadn't been slept in…" She paused, trying to regain her composure. "What the hell were you playing at? Why didn't you answer your phone?"

"Ilsa, calm down and take a deep breath," Chance said in a soothing tone. "Everything is fine. There's nothing to worry about."

"Well, if you'd actually bothered to answer your cell, I'd know that already wouldn't I?" Ilsa snapped, turning on her heel, and marching towards her office.

"What's the big deal?" Chance asked, following her. "You knew I was going to see Guerrero…"

"Considering the foul mood you were in yesterday, it wasn't a huge stretch of the imagination to think that you'd killed each other!" she said before slamming her office door behind her.

"Never gonna happen," Guerrero said quietly.

"Ilsa wasn't the only one who was worried," Winston hissed at him. "Would it have killed you to pick up the damn phone?" Guerrero glared at him for a second, then rolled his eyes. He had deleted the alert telling him that he had almost as many missed calls as Chance without a second thought. "Chance, I think you should give Ilsa a little time to cool down. She was really worried about you. Both of you."

Chance shrugged and headed into the kitchen, where Ames was sitting with an enormous cup of coffee, idling flicking through a magazine. She looked up as Chance walked in followed by Guerrero and Winston.

"Hey! Where were you this morning?" Ames asked. "We had plans, remember?"

"Yeah, I kind of got distracted. Sorry."

"That's it?" Winston asked, in a deceptively calm voice. "That's your explanation? Ilsa has been going out of her mind with worry!"

"I wasn't aware we were contractually obligated to notify management of our movements twenty-four-seven, dude." Guerrero said, opening the refrigerator and examining the contents. "I'm pretty sure I would remember if I'd agreed to that."

"I can't believe your first thought when we're a little late into the office is that we've killed each other!" Chance said, incredulous at the suggestion.

"Well, maybe not killed each other," Winston conceded. "But after seeing the two of you spar, the thought of you both fighting for real is something that has been playing on Ilsa's mind a lot. And you have to admit, Chance, things have been a little strained between you and Guerrero lately."

Guerrero chuckled.

"I'm glad you think this is so funny, Guerrero!" Winston snapped. Guerrero just smiled and helped himself to a yogurt clearly marked with Winston's name.

"I was with Guerrero last night and we were a little late in this morning!" Chance said, starting to lose his patience. "What's the big deal?"

"Huh," Ames said, with a satisfied look.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Chance asked.

"Just an interesting choice of words. You were _with Guerrero _last night, not at Guerrero's or hanging out with Guerrero. Just _with Guerrero."_

Guerrero gave Ames an odd look, as if she'd suddenly done something interesting and unexpected.

"I knew it!" Ames said, picking up her cell and beginning to type out a text message. "I knew that story about the hickey was bullshit! Janey so owes me ten bucks right now!"

Guerrero stepped forward, grabbed the cell from her hands and dropped it into her coffee mug.

"Hey!" she protested.

"Gossiping about us? Seriously not cool."

"When Ames came to me with what I thought was just another one of her harebrained theories, I told her to keep her mouth shut," Winston said. "I honestly didn't think there was anything to it, but she's right, isn't she?"

Chance nodded. "How the hell did you know?" He asked Ames.

"Good question," Guerrero said, staring at Ames.

"I just kind of worked it out!" Ames said, panicking slightly under the intensity of Guerrero's stare. "First there was the hickey, then Chance acting all loved-up and…"

"I was not acting loved-up!" Chance protested.

"…and then when Chance was teaching me some moves, I realised that they smelled like each other. Not just 'cause they'd used the same products or whatever, but like pheromones of something…" Ames finished rather weakly.

Guerrero went back to giving her a speculative look. He was mildly impressed that she'd managed to put it all together like that.

Winston took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Damn! I didn't see this one coming."

"Yeah, it kind of took us by surprise too," Chance admitted, rubbing at the back of his neck self-consciously.

"I think it's cute!" Ames said. "I mean, you've got all this shared history, right? It's like you have matching emotional baggage!"

Guerrero gave her a look toxic enough to fell livestock, and Ames quickly wiped the grin off her face, trying to sink lower into her chair.

"I hate to say this," Winston said, running his hand over his head, "but you're going to have to tell Ilsa."

Chance frowned. "I know."


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's note: Yes, I have heard the news that Human Target has not been renewed by FOX, and no I don't want to talk about it right now. I am angry. Leave it at that for now. It seems this fic has got a few more chapters left in it, so I'm reluctant to end it right now. Strangely it has become my own little comfort blanket and I don't want to let go just yet.**

* * *

Ilsa looked up from the pile of invoices she'd been staring at blindly when she heard a knock at her office door.

"Come in."

Chance opened the door but didn't walk in. "Ilsa, we need to talk."

"Yes, Mr Chance," she said. "I believe we do."

Chance flinched slightly at the chilliness of her tone, but walked in anyway, shutting the door carefully behind him, and sat down opposite her at her desk. She made him wait whilst she made a show of arranging the papers in to a neat pile on her desk, but Chance wasn't fooled by her obvious ploy to look as though she had more important things to do than to talk to him. He could see that half the papers were upside down.

"I'm sorry," Chance said.

"Well, that's a start," Ilsa said folding her arms and leaning back in her chair, "But what exactly are you sorry for?"

Chance just looked at her for a moment, weighing up whether or not that was a trick question. Her body language was screaming that she was still angry with him, which wasn't going to make the conversation they were about to have any easier, for either of them.

"I'm sorry that you were worried about me," he said. "And Guerrero. I left my cell on silent. I honestly wasn't ignoring your calls."

"Is that it?"

"No," Chance said, wincing slightly at her school-ma'am tone. "I'm sorry for the way I stormed off yesterday too. It was rude and unnecessary."

Ilsa continued to stare him down, but gave him a small nod. It was the only indication that she seemed to accept his apology.

"Things with me and Guerrero have got a bit… complicated lately," he said. He knew that was a gross understatement, but hey, it was a start right?

"Yes, I noticed that. Would you care to explain?"

_Damn! Did she have to just ask him flat out like that? It was never going to be easy to just slip it into the conversation, but she wasn't making it any easier!_

"Guerrero was worried about me, I mean really worried, after the shoot-out at the mall. I know you think that all he cares about is saving his own ass and getting paid, but that's because that's all he wants you to see…"

"On the contrary, Chance. I have, on occasion, witnessed behaviour that indicates that Mr Guerrero does in fact care very deeply about you, and Winston assures me that this is something we should never even question. Given the foolhardy way he rushed into an ambush on the Mcvey case in order to assist you, I'd even go so far as to say that he puts your wellbeing before his own. Which makes the shameful way you have treated him lately all the more despicable."

"Yeah, about that," Chance hesitated, trying to decide which misunderstanding to correct first. "I wasn't really mad at Guerrero. It just seemed easier at the time to go along with your assumption that I was, instead of telling you what was really going on."

Ilsa didn't reply, but the way she clenched her teeth, jutting her jaw out slightly, and the deepening of her frown, told him that his explanation was doing nothing to smooth things over. If anything she was more angry than when he'd first walked in.

"I really didn't mean to make you worry, Ilsa. It didn't even occur to me that you'd think that Guerrero and I were at each other's throats." He cringed inwardly when the memory of biting and licking at Guerrero throat sprang to mind. It had been a poor choice of words considering…

"Yes, well I think we've established that you were thoughtless about the situation, but you still haven't told me what exactly is going on!"

"Guerrero and I have got very close lately," Chance said hesitantly.

"And?"

"Well, take the Mcvey case, for example. There was a reason Guerrero ran head first into that guy's baseball bat. He was distracted."

"Yes," Ilsa said. "He was too focused on helping you out to realise the danger he was in. What's your point, Chance?"

"It wasn't quite that straight forward," Chance said cautiously. "It was seeing Alison Mcvey throw herself at me that really distracted him."

"Are you trying to say that Guerrero was jealous?" Ilsa asked.

"Yes."

"Well that's ridiculous!" Ilsa laughed. "He was incredibly rude to Alison when she stopped by the office. He didn't strike me as being particularly interested in her!"

Chance winced. "That's not quite what I meant Ilsa. He wasn't jealous of me, he was jealous of her." Ilsa's eyes widened and the colour drained from her face. Chance decided to push on, to make sure she really understood. "Like I said, Guerrero and I have gotten a lot closer lately. We weren't sure exactly where that was heading, so we tried to hide it from you. And from Winston and Ames too, although now it seems they weren't particularly fooled. I wasn't being distant with Guerrero because we had a row. In fact it was the total opposite." Chance knew he was starting to babble, but Ilsa still hadn't said anything so he just kept talking, filling the silence and putting off the moment when he'd actually have to deal with her reaction. "I didn't want to keep it a secret from you, but it was kind of a lot to get my head around."

"Is this some kind of joke?" Ilsa asked quietly.

Chance frowned. He thought he'd considered every possible way Ilsa could react to the news, but disbelief wasn't one of them. "Do you really think I'd joke about something like this?"

Ilsa shook her head. "I don't know. I'm confused. Are you really trying to tell me that you and Guerrero are… together?"

Chance nodded.

"How on earth am I supposed to react to that?" she demanded. "I had no idea either of you were even gay!"

Chance flinched, "Well, bisexual might be a better term."

"Are you in love with him?" she asked.

Chance froze. It wasn't a question that he was prepared to answer yet, not even in the privacy of his own head.

When Chance didn't reply, Ilsa sighed. "I shouldn't have asked you that. It's none of my business."

"There's a lot we haven't figured out just yet," Chance said, relieved that Ilsa wasn't pushing him to answer her question. "But sneaking around and hiding it from you and the rest of the team felt… not right."

"I don't know what to say to you, Chance," Ilsa admitted. "I need a little time to take all of this in. It wasn't so long ago that I thought maybe we might… Well, you know what I thought."

"Ilsa…"

"Just don't, Chance," she interrupted. "I don't need to hear platitudes right now. I need time to think, and that will be a lot easier if we don't muddy the waters by dragging up the past."

Chance stood up. "I really am sorry that we gave you cause to worry, Ilsa. That was never my intention."

Ilsa forced her lips into smile, but the expression didn't quote make it to her eyes. "Well, thank you for telling me, Chance. It can't have been easy for you."

Chance nodded and walked out of her office. He carefully shut the door behind him, pretending not to see the tears forming at the corners of Ilsa's eyes as he left.

* * *

"How did she take it?" Winston asked, as Chance returned to the kitchen.

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Okay, I guess. At first she thought I was joking."

"Well, you have to admit this has kind of come out of nowhere," Winston said.

"Yeah, plus you know she was totally hot for you, right?" Ames added with a bluntness that made Winston and Chance cringe.

"Nice one, Ames," Guerrero drawled sarcastically. "You wanna see if you could make this any more awkward?"

"Sorry!" she pouted. "It's not like that is news to anyone, is it?"

"Not the point, dude."

"I can't believe Guerrero of all people is giving anyone a lesson in tact!" Winston muttered.

"I think she just needs a little time to get used to the idea," Chance said.

"Yeah, and she's not the only one!" Winston said, shaking his head and walking out of the kitchen.

"Well, I'm cool with it!" Ames grinned. "So tell me, how did you guys hook up? I want details!"

Guerrero looked about ready to throttle her, but Chance shook his head, so instead he bit his lip and turned away.

"Ames, it's one thing to let you guys know that we've got something going on," Chance said, "but our sex life is not up for discussion!"

"Oooh! So there has been sex then?" she cooed.

Guerrero snapped. He grabbed her by the arm and frogmarched her to the elevator without a word. He hit the call button and waited, ignoring her loud and persistent protests. When the doors opened he shoved her inside, hit the button for the basement and ducked out again as the doors closed.

"Wow, for you that was actually pretty restrained," Chance said. He'd followed them out of the kitchen just to be sure that things didn't get out of hand.

"Can't say the same for you, dude. What the hell did you mention our sex life for anyway?"

Chance looked sheepish. "Sorry. Poor choice of words. It just slipped out."

Guerrero sighed. "Well, she'd have assumed anyway."

"Yeah. I guess."

"Maybe we should get out of here for a while," Guerrero suggested. "Let Ilsa calm down a bit."

"Okay, but I'll leave her a note. And keep my cell switched on. Just in case."

* * *

When Ilsa still hadn't come out of her office an hour after her conversation with Chance, Winston decided to check up on her, under the guise of taking her a cup of coffee. He knocked gently on her office door. "Ilsa? Can I come in?"

He heard the sound of Ilsa discreetly blowing her nose and a few seconds later she replied, "Yes, Winston. Please do."

Although she gave him a bright smile when he walked in, the puffiness of her eyes gave away that she had been crying. Winston chose not to comment though, handing her the coffee and sitting on the chair where Chance had sat earlier.

"Thank you," Ilsa said. Winston didn't reply. He just smiled and patted her hand, giving her the option to talk about it or not, without the pressure of asking her how she was. She grasped his hand and squeezed it.

"I feel such a fool," she said eventually.

"There's really no reason why you should, Ilsa," Winston said.

"I had no idea that Chance was… He must think I'm such an idiot!"

"I don't think Chance knew himself," Winston explained. "I know it must have come as shock. I know you care deeply for Chance."

Ilsa shook her head. "You misunderstand me, Winston. Yes, there was a time when I felt there was some kind of chemistry between Chance and I, but it passed. I accepted that and moved on." She squeezed his hand to emphasise this. Winston wasn't entirely convinced that Ilsa had managed to draw such a neat line under her feelings for Chance, but he decided it was probably kinder not to call her out on it. "What really pains me," she continued, "is that I am still an outsider here, and I believe I always will be."

"Ilsa, that's not true! Chance and Guerrero kept all of us in the dark about their relationship."

"Perhaps, but you and Ames worked it out, didn't you?"

"Ames figured it out, but I thought she was nuts. I only really found out today, the same as you."

"But neither of you came to me about it, did you?"

Winston sighed. "Until today, I didn't know there was anything to tell."

"I can accept that you all try to protect me from the, shall we say, less than legal aspects of the team's work. I appreciate that I am able to maintain plausible deniability both personally, and for the sake of the Marshall Pucci Foundation. We have a system, and for the most part it works. But to be kept so completely out of the loop like this, by people who I not only consider colleagues, but friends too… Well, it's hurtful."

"I'm sure nobody intended to hurt your feelings…"

"And yet they do. What am I really doing here Winston? Aside from my check-book, what purpose do I serve?"

"Well, for a start you bring civilisation to these animals!" Winston said smiling.

"I appreciate that you're trying to make me feel better, I really do. Your support is important to me. But I think it's time I faced the truth. I'm simply not needed here."

"Don't decide anything now," Winston urged. "This whole thing has got everybody a little spooked. Wait for the dust to settle before you make any plans. I don't want you to leave, and I'm sure the others will tell you the same thing."

Ilsa nodded, "Perhaps."


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's note: Yes, I'm still sulking over Fox's decision. Bastards.**

* * *

"I thought we were heading to your place," Chance said when Guerrero missed the turning that lead to Northbeach.

"We are," Guerrero said.

Chance gave Guerrero a curious look, but didn't ask for further clarification. He knew Guerrero had more than one property in the city, so it was safe to assume Guerrero was taking him to one of the others. After his awkward conversation with Ilsa, the silence in the Eldo was actually quite soothing, there was no pressure for either of them to make idle conversation, so Chance could just relax. If he hadn't been so curious as to where Guerrero was driving them, he could have easily dozed off. He watched with interest as Guerrero took them through the suburbs, but after a while their surroundings grew more run down and decrepit, until they ended up in what appeared to be abandoned industrial complex.

"Nice neighbourhood," Chance said. Guerrero grunted but didn't reply. "You do know we're in Hardcore 6 gang territory right now, don't you?"

"Dude, I'm counting on it."

Chance was a little unsettled by Guerrero's reply, and his feelings of apprehension only grew worse when the Eldo pulled up alongside the remains of a security barrier and man in his early twenties sporting some serious gang ink, as well as a deep scar across his left cheek, stepped out of the old guard house. The man made no effort to conceal the Glock tucked into the waistband of his jeans as he strutted over to the car. Chance looked over at Guerrero, and to his surprise saw that he was winding the window down.

"What-up G," the man said. Guerrero bumped fists with him.

"Hey Daz," Guerrero replied. "How's your brother?"

"Out of solitary, thanks to you bro," the man replied, as the bad attitude scowl on his face was chased away by a broad grin.

"Yeah, well you tell him he takes part in any more beat downs he's on his own."

"I hear you, G. I hear you."

"Any chance you can do a store run?" Guerrero asked.

"No problem, G. The usual?"

"Yeah."

The man turned away and headed back to the guard house as Guerrero wound the window back up. A kid in his mid teens ran out of the hut and disappeared behind it. A moment later he reappeared on a bike and pedalled away at full speed.

"What the hell was that?" Chance asked.

"Security," Guerrero replied.

"You use a Hardcore 6 gang member as your security guy?"

Guerrero shrugged. "It's not always the same guy."

"What the hell are you playing at, Guerrero? Those guys don't mess around!"

"That's kind of the point, dude. No one messes with them."

"For good reason! They're insane!"

Guerrero laughed.

"Jesus, Guerrero! What the fuck are you doing getting involved with Hardcore 6?"

"I needed someone to keep an eye on the place," Guerrero said. Chance was still glaring at him, so he sighed and resigned himself to the fact that it was going to require more of an explanation than that to pacify him.

"Ten years ago this place was a war zone, dude. Most of the stories about Hardcore 6 you've heard date back to that time. One of the Old Man's associates had an interest in calming things down. It's a long story involving a meth lab and a senator's daughter, I won't bore you with it. Bottom line, I got the job of neutralising the problem. An area like this is always going to have a gang problem though, so once I'd taken out all the major players I let the lieutenants fight it out for a while, but when it seemed Hardcore 6 were getting their shit together I offered them a little friendly advice and they came out on top."

"So, what? They owe you now?" Chance asked.

"The first guy to take charge didn't see it that way." Guerrero smirked. "Neither did the second or third, but the guy after that got the message."

"So you have one of the most dangerous gangs in the city in your pocket?" Chance shook his head with disbelief.

"One of the most notorious gangs," Guerrero corrected. "It's all about the rep. This is actually a fairly safe area. Every now and then a rival gang tries to get a foothold, but it's nothing Hardcore 6 can't handle."

"But can you trust them?"

Guerrero gave him a withering look. "Dude, when have you known me trust anyone?"

"Point taken," Chance conceded. "But gang-bangers? Seriously?"

"Why not? They keep my place secure."

"Oh, I don't know. How about the homely touches they bring to a neighbourhood, like the violence, the drugs, the protection rackets. You know, all the fun stuff…"

Guerrero laughed. "All stuff that's going to happen anyway, dude, and it probably happens a lot less round here than you think. About the only drugs that get dealt around here are a bit of weed and a few pills. It's part of the little understanding I have with Hardcore 6. Things tend to go to shit if everyone's hopped up on meth."

"Just how involved with them are you, Guerrero? I need to know."

"You really think I'd waste my time on this shit?" he asked. "Dude! They watch my place and in return I don't kill them and their families in their sleep. It's just a little quid pro quo. Nothing to be worried about!"

Chance was still mulling this over when the kid on the bike returned, balancing a couple of brown paper bags on the handle bars. Guerrero popped the trunk and the kid deposited the bags inside and slammed it shut. Guerrero rolled his window down again and handed the kid some cash.

"And what was that?" Chance asked as Guerrero drove off in the direction of one of the old warehouses.

"Groceries. You want to eat tonight, don't you?"

Chance sat back and tried to decide how he felt about what Guerrero had just told him. Although he wasn't happy about the idea of Guerrero having any involvement with a gang, he had to admit, from Guerrero's point of view, the arrangement made sense. The groundwork for keeping Hardcore 6 in line had been laid back in the days when they were both still working for the Old Man, so why shouldn't Guerrero take advantage of his reputation? His reasons for keeping the gang problem under control may not have been exactly altruistic, but if his influence on Hardcore 6 kept the area comparatively peaceful and drug-free, who was he to argue with that?

The building Guerrero was heading for was a derelict looking warehouse, but as the Eldo drew closer Chance could see that although the building looked in bad shape from a distance, it was actually structurally sound. Guerrero got out of the car, and walked over to an apparently random patch of wall. Chance didn't have a very clear view of what Guerrero was doing, but it seemed like a small panel was concealed in the wall, and he watched as Guerrero punched in a code. As he walked back to the car a large section of the wall lifted up like a garage door.

"Impressive," Chance said, as Guerrero got back into the car and drove it inside the warehouse.

"Hardly," Guerrero grunted. "It's a little cheesy for my tastes. I've just never gotten around to putting in something better."

Chance was intrigued. Guerrero had obviously put a fair bit of time and effort into keeping this place secure, but why?

The part of the warehouse that they'd driven into seemed to be a workshop of sorts. Guerrero got out and flicked on the overhead lights as the automated door shut behind them. Chance climbed out of the Eldo and took a look around. There were three other cars in various states of repair, and a long workbench stretched along one wall, bare but for the impressive array of industrial grade power tools that were securely bolted down at regular intervals. Another wall was taken up by enormous steel cabinets, which presumably housed Guerrero's tools, and a large wooden table stood in the corner, covered with hand drawn plans for some kind of mechanical device that Guerrero was obviously in the middle of designing. Chance could see that the tools alone were worthy of a decent security system, but something told him that this workshop wasn't the only thing Guerrero was trying to keep safe.

"What are you working on?" Chance asked when he couldn't make any sense of the designs on the table.

"Just trying to modify a cooling system. I figure there must be a way to get it to run silently."

Chance nodded and took another look at the plans. He laughed when it finally clicked what he was looking at. "Guerrero, this is a cooling system for an Xbox, isn't it?"

Guerrero smiled, "You disappointed? Were you expecting it to be something a little more nefarious?"

"Maybe," Chance replied.

Guerrero laughed and opened a door on the far side of the room, beckoning Chance over with a nod of his head. Beyond it was a room fully kitted out with resistance machines, free weights and several punch bags and practice dummies. What really caught Chance's attention though was the vast collection of bladed weapons mounted on the walls. One item in particular drew his eye: a ceremonial sword about thirty inches long that was straight on one side and scalloped on the other. About halfway along the blade curved into a crescent shape, and the overall effect was something like a short sword tipped with a sickle.

"Is that a Ngulu blade?" Chance asked.

"Yeah. It's not the one that took a chunk out of your back that time in Kenya, by the way, but it is a genuine nineteenth century ceremonial Masai blade."

Chance tried to suppress an involuntary shudder.

"Yeah, that thing doesn't exactly bring back good memories for me either," Guerrero said. "Nearly lost you that day."

"So why have it on display like that?"

Guerrero shrugged, "It keeps me motivated while I train, I guess."

Chance dragged his attention away from the Ngulu blade and looked at the other bladed weapons on display. Most of them he recognised straight away, everything from katanas and scimitars to bayonets and chakrams.

"Is that a scissor action katara?" Chance asked. "Please tell me you've never actually used it on anyone!"

Guerrero laughed and took the item in question down from the wall. It was a blade about four inches across and about a foot long with an unusual H-shaped handle that ensured that the blade sat on top of the knuckles, so it could be wielded in a punching fashion. There was a second bar beneath the grip, and when they were squeezed together the wide blade split into three smaller blades that splayed out from the handle.

"It purely decorative, bro. It requires too much force to open the blades once it has penetrated. The scissor action is mainly just for show. And no, I haven't tried it out on anyone, but I did try it out on a pig carcass once. Messy."

Chance took the blade from Guerrero and squeezed the grip, making the blades separate. "It is pretty cool," he admitted. "Kind of like.."

"Wolverine," Guerrero finished, grinning. "Yeah, I know. Why'd you think I got it?"

Chance laughed and handed the katara carefully back to Guerrero, who returned it to its place on the wall.

"You've seen all the interesting stuff," Guerrero said. "There's not much more to see."

The final room that Guerrero led him to was a larger open-plan living area, lit by small windows close to the ceiling. In contrast to the immaculately tidy workshop and gym, Guerrero's living quarters had a much more lived-in look. Bookshelves covered two of the walls and there were piles of yet more books stacked haphazardly on the floor, covering subjects as diverse as human anatomy, engineering and Italian opera. Chance wasn't particularly surprised to see a sixty inch flat screen TV and an array of games consoles set up opposite a huge leather couch, and the lack of anywhere else to sit told him that Guerrero was not used to having company here. There was a large modern kitchen area in one corner, and a small area partitioned off in another corner, which Chance took to be the bathroom. Next to it was a king-size bed and two oversized chests of drawers.

"Like I said, not much to see," Guerrero said with a shrug. "But for what it's worth, you're the only one who's ever seen it."

"I like it," Chance said. "It reminds me of my loft."

Guerrero laughed, "I've had this place longer than you've had the loft, dude."

Chance smiled, "I guess great minds really do think alike."

Guerrero chose not to point out that the décor in his private area at the loft was mainly a hangover from the previous Christopher Chance in residence. Instead he leaned against one of the kitchen cabinets and gave Chance a thoughtful look.

"So what exactly is on your mind at the moment then?" Guerrero asked.

Chance glanced at the king-size bed before turning his gaze back to Guerrero. "What do you think is on my mind?"

"If it's anything other than my cock in your mouth, I'm not sure I want to know," Guerrero smirked.

Chance shook his head and laughed. "I guess now we're not sneaking around any more, the romance is well and truly dead!"

"I never promised you romance, dude."

"You do know how messed up this is, right?" Chance asked, walking over to where Guerrero was leaning casually against the kitchen counter. "You and me? It's insane."

Guerrero shrugged. "Does it really matter?"

"You mean your whole 'I'm happy, you're happy' argument?"

"Why not?"

Chance gave him a lop-sided smile. "I know there must be hundreds of reason why not. I just can't seem to think of them at the moment." He hooked a finger beneath Guerrero's belt and pulled him forward so they were standing so close that he could feel the heat radiating from his body and the slight whisper of his breath against his face. To see his look of desire reflected in Chance's eyes was still something that took Guerrero's breath away, and although a considerable part of him distrusted anyone holding that kind of power over him, the fact that it was Chance made always seemed to override his objections.

Every major decision always came back to him, to follow him, to protect him. The name changed more than once over the years, but Guerrero had always been drawn to the blonde man standing before him with that infuriatingly contagious smile and the treacherously blue eyes. Okay, so the sex things was a new, but not entirely unprecedented, thing. No one could live and work alongside a man as obviously attractive as a man like Chance without him at least having a cameo appearance at some point in a dream or fantasy, whether it was a conscious thing or not. Guerrero had never allowed himself to indulge in those fantasies, and for good reason. Chance already had too much of a hold over him already, and yet here they were, standing in the one place that Guerrero kept for himself, and only for himself, letting him in to what he swore he'd never let anyone know existed.

Chance shifted his finger slightly, so instead of just curling around Guerrero's belt, it was now tucked into the waistband of his jeans, nestled against the firm, lightly haired flesh of his abdomen. Chance didn't miss the way Guerrero's breath caught at the touch, and he smiled at the stubbornness that prevented him from reaching out to him, from begging Chance to just hurry up and do something already.

Chance leaned in until his lips were almost touching Guerrero's ear. "Tell me," he said, his voice somewhere between a moan and a sigh. "Tell me what you want."

"You know what I want," he replied, his voice rough and sounding far to close to needy. He had to clench his fists to stop himself from just grabbing Chance and dragging his face close enough to silence him with his mouth, to lick away those hot teasing words, leaving Chance with the same urgent need to be touched that was eroding his capacity to think clearly.

Chance sighed and took his finger away, breaking off the only contact between them. As he started to turn away, Guerrero cracked. He grabbed Chance's hand and pressed it against his crotch, where his dick lay harder and heavier than he could bare any longer. Chance smiled and began stroking his hard-on through the thick fabric of his jeans.

"Is this what you want, Guerrero?" he teased. "Just my hand? Or do you really want my mouth wrapped around your cock…?"

Guerrero just stopped fighting it. With one hand at the nape of Chance's neck, he pulled him in and kissed him hard, his tongue invading his mouth hungrily as his other hand wrenched at his belt and clawed at his jeans, until Chance batted his hands away and undid them for him. Without a word, Chance dropped to his knees, and Guerrero groaned as he swept his tongue across the tip of his cock.

How could he do this to him? How could he dominate him so completely whilst on his knees, giving him exactly what he wanted, what he'd all but demanded? But that was always how it had been between them, somehow Chance always had the upper hand. Guerrero left the Old Man because Chance did, and he turned away from a very lucrative living to ensure that they never again faced each other at the wrong end of a loaded gun.

Whenever he was forced to make a choice, Guerrero always chose Chance, and he'd first made that choice a long time ago, without considering that it would ever be more than friendship between them. He'd long since accepted that Chance had buried his way too far under his skin than was safe for either of them. Maybe he should have resented that, but Chance never took advantage of the hold he had on him, until now. And really Guerrero wasn't complaining, not when the benefits of Chance being able to push his buttons so easily were moments like this, when Chance focused all his intensity and single-minded determination on driving him out of his mind.

The noises Guerrero was making as Chance ran his tongue around the head of his cock were starting to be a problem. Chance was already hard by the time Guerrero was fumbling to get his jeans open, and at first there was little to distract him from exploring his cock with his lips and tongue. It still surprised him that going down on another guy could feel so good, but he suspected that half of what made it so good was the fact that it was Guerrero who had one hand absent-mindedly running his fingers through his hair as Chance drank in the taste and scent of him. But as Chance found his rhythm, Guerrero went from just breathing heavily and erratically to moaning helplessly, and Chance was so hard that it hurt. He was reluctant to stop, even for a moment, as long as Guerrero kept making those sounds, so he quickly undid his own jeans and began stroking his cock in time with what his mouth was doing.

When Guerrero looked down and saw Chance jerking off, it sent a bolt of desire threw his body so strong that he barely managed to moan his name before he came, pulsing down Chance's throat as his legs almost gave way beneath him. Chance moaned as he came seconds later, making Guerrero pull at his hair as the vibrations thrummed at his now too sensitive cock. Chance threw back his head gasping for air, and Guerrero looked down at him and smiled. He would be the only one to ever see Chance like this, hot and flushed, his eyes half-closed and his lips pink and slightly swollen from sucking him off. Chance had been many people over the years, but this man was someone only he would see.

Guerrero knew that neither of them were really in control anymore. They were riding an avalanche, a force of nature that neither of them could hope to steer, but they were in it together, come what may.


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's note: For those of you who use Twitter, check out HumanTargetUSA and Rally4Valley for news on the campaign to get our boys back on the air. Facebookers should also check the SaveHumanTarget group.**

* * *

After they had eaten the home made spaghetti bolognaise that Guerrero had whipped up from the groceries the kid had fetched for them earlier, they vegged out on the couch and watched an old movie on TV. Chance was sprawled out on his back, resting his head in Guerrero's lap, partly just to see if he could get away with it, but also to prevent Guerrero from setting up his laptop, which he'd retrieved from the Eldo. So far Guerrero wasn't objecting, although he'd let out a resigned sigh when Chance had claimed his lap as a pillow.

Guerrero decided that although having Chance constantly invading his personal space wasn't unpleasant, it would take some getting used to, even in the privacy of what Chance referred to as his home. He'd never thought of the converted warehouse as anything other than just a secure place to keep his stuff, and to sleep when necessary, but Chance was insistent that he knew the difference between a place to crash and someone's home, and the warehouse was definitely the latter. The idea troubled Guerrero at first, as the idea of having a home went along with all the everyday complications he strove to avoid, like taxes, insurance and a traceable social security number, but he had to admit, the warehouse did feel different with Chance there.

About halfway though the movie, when Guerrero checked his email on his smart phone for the third time in ten minutes, Chance decided to admit defeat and just let him use his damn laptop. Guerrero gave him a questioning look when he abruptly sat up and settled back into his end of the couch.

"Why'd ya move?" he asked. He might not have been paying much attention to the movie, but he'd been comfortable with Chance's head on his lap. He'd had one hand resting on Chance's chest and it had been soothing to feel the soft rhythm of his heartbeat against his palm.

"I figured it would just be easier for you to use your laptop," Chance shrugged. He didn't seem particularly bothered by the idea. He just accepted the idea that he could only stand between Guerrero and his business for so long before he'd have to move aside.

"There's no need," Guerrero replied. "I was just checking my messages."

Chance nodded, but he could see that something about those messages was bothering him. He picked up the remote and switched off the TV, waiting to see if Guerrero was going to elaborate. He didn't need to actually ask the question out loud, giving Guerrero his undivided attention was enough.

Guerrero sighed. "Ilsa is in trouble." When Chance looked alarmed, he shook his head. "Not that kind of trouble. It seems that her position with the Marshall Pucci foundation may have just become untenable."

Chance frowned. "How?"

"Connie Pucci is about to resign from the boards of directors. Without her onboard there is a strong possibility that the other board members will band together to get rid of Ilsa altogether."

"Can they even do that?" Chance asked.

"Marshall Pucci was a smart guy. When he set up the Foundation he made sure that he and Ilsa held control of the final say when major financial decisions were involved, so that the bureaucrats had to answer to them and not vice versa. In the event of his death, Marshall's authority was transferred to his sister, in order to maintain the legal checks and balances that ensure that no one person has the unchallenged authority to dictate financial decisions. What he didn't anticipate though, was what would happen if Connie resigned when Ilsa didn't have the full support of the board. I guess he assumed that she would never leave Ilsa in a vulnerable position like that."

"So the board of directors could just kick Ilsa out?" Chance asked. "Why would Connie do that to her?"

"She's in love," Guerrero said, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice.

"But why would that mean…?"

"Connie has just got engaged to John Bakerman, an ultra-conservative British politician with very strong, very public views about the evils of modern morality. For Connie to marry the guy, she's going to have to sever all links with the Marshall Pucci Foundation. Bakerman denounced it as 'a corrupt liberal charity that undermines public morality'."

"Huh?"

"The Foundation has supported family planning clinics in the past, dude, as well as setting up projects supporting gay teens, and getting involved in a whole bunch of issues that Bakerman considers immoral. Connie can't close down half of the Foundation's projects to please him, so the only thing she can do is distance herself from it. Which kinda leaves Ilsa out in the cold."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"What can we do to help her?" Chance asked.

"Nothing that Ilsa is likely to approve of."

"Does she know?"

"Not yet. My source said Connie is going to announce her decision tomorrow."

"Fuck!

Guerrero watched Chance as he sat back and assimilated the news.

"We've got to help her," Chance said eventually. "Surely you could dig up some dirt on the other board members?"

Guerrero gave him an exasperated look. "Dude, I could sink the whole Foundation tomorrow if I wanted to, but that's not the point. Maybe this is what Ilsa needs right now. An out."

"Why would she need an out?"

"You don't think finding out about us was a slap in the face?"

"It was unexpected, sure. But…"

"Dude, the only reason she stayed was because of the way she feels about you! Wasn't that the reason she didn't leave after the business with the CIA chick?"

"Yeah, I thought so, but she kept pushing me away."

"You were supposed to pursue her. But you didn't."

"No."

"I'm not going to ask why you didn't, 'cause honestly, I don't care. But I bet Ilsa does, and right now she's got to be asking herself what she's still doing here."

"She's part of the team!"

"Is she, dude? Really? What exactly is she gonna do for the team once the Pucci Foundation takes away her private jet and her company check book? You really think she's going to liquidate all her personal assets to keep us in the style to which she's accustomed? We both know she's fuck-all use in the field."

"That's not fair, Guerrero…"

"Life's not fair, but that doesn't make it any less true. I could fix things with the board so she could stay here and keep bank-rolling us, but it would be a con and you know it. Do you really think that's what Ilsa wants for her precious Marshall's legacy? I could do it but there's no way we could let Ilsa know about it. We'd be conning her too, dude."

Chance sighed. "I don't want to con her. It's not about the money."

"Then what is it about? In practical terms, she's of no use to us any more. There's no room for passengers in this line of work. If Ilsa sticks around, she'll be nothing but dead weight. A weakness to be exploited."

"That's not entirely true. She has opened a lot of doors for us."

"Doors that we had no trouble picking the locks on before. We've got complacent since she came along."

"Not everything needs be done the hard way."

Guerrero shook his head. "Will you just listen to yourself? We used to do what ever it took to get the job done, and now we have to tip toe round Ilsa's sensibilities like they mean something!"

Chance frown deepened. "This is starting to sound like your issue with Ilsa is a personal one."

"No, Chance, it's not. And that's my point. You wanting to keep her around when she's out-lived her usefulness is a personal issue and has nothing to do with the team."

"I'll admit I care for Ilsa. She's a friend. But are you sure that this has nothing to do with wanting to eliminate the competition?"

Guerrero's expression went from mildly annoyed to a dead-eyed stare in a heart beat. "Not cool, Chance."

"Are you honestly saying that there's not a bit of a conflict of interests going on here?"

Guerrero stood up and walked away. For a moment Chance thought he was going to just walk out, but he only went as far as the kitchen, opening the refrigerator and get himself a beer. Chance fought the urge to push him for an answer, and just sat and watched him as he opened the bottle and took a long drink.

"You could have pretty much any woman you wanted, Chance, including Ilsa. I really don't know why you're here with me, and I try not to think about it too hard." He paused for a moment, as if he wasn't sure if he really wanted to admit to Chance what he was thinking. "And yeah, I'm concerned that at some point you're just going to wonder what the fuck we're doing, but I trust you enough to tell me when that day comes. Maybe it will be Ilsa or a client or just some random chick, who it is doesn't really matter. One day someone is just gonna open your eyes to the fact that this isn't what you want. Until then, I'm just not gonna think about it."

"Jesus, is that what you really think? That I'm just going through a phase or something?"

"Aren't you?" Guerrero asked, opening the refrigerator again and getting a beer for Chance. It seemed like the kind of conversation that would go a bit easier if there was alcohol involved, and judging from the look on Chance's face, Guerrero figured he could use a drink about now.

"Alright, after that first time… it confused the hell out of me, okay?" He accepted the beer Guerrero held out to him and took sip, as much to buy himself a bit of time to think as anything else. "I didn't know that I could feel that way about a guy, especially you. I got a little caught up on the how and the why for a while, but that really didn't get me anywhere, so I just accepted it. I don't know how either of us are going to feel a couple of years down the line. Hell, if you'd told me a year ago that this was where we'd be now…" He paused, picking at the label on his beer. "Well, there's no way good way to end that sentence. But here and now…I want this to be very clear. I want _you. _Period."

Chance slowly raised his eyes to see what effect, if any, his words had had on Guerrero. The dead-eyed stare had softened somewhat, but he still seemed tense and a little distant. He remained standing rather than sitting back down on the couch, which made Chance feel even more on edge.

"Generally speaking, questioning my motives is a good idea, but in this case I've been straight-up with you, dude. Ilsa is gonna wake up tomorrow and find herself in a shitty position and I think the best thing to do is to let her leave with a little dignity. Not because I think she'll seduce you away from me if she stays, but because she will be better off in the long-term if she goes."

"I'm sorry," Chance said, hoping that Guerrero understood that he meant it. "I should have worked that out on my own instead of accusing you of having ulterior motives."

Guerrero gave a shrug. "Counting on there being an ulterior motive with me is usually a pretty safe bet."

"Yeah, but it wasn't fair."

"I'd always rather you were honest with me than fair."

Chance smiled. "Well, that I can do. And in the spirit of being honest, can you please sit the fuck down? You're making me nervous!"

Guerrero smiled and cocked an eyebrow, but didn't sit down. "Really?"

"Yeah really. I don't know if you noticed, but I kinda poured my heart out to you a moment ago."

Guerrero laughed. "Well, I've caught on to the fact that putting a little distance between us is the only way I can have a serious conversation with you these days. Close up, you tend to try and distract me if things don't go your way."

Chance grinned. "So you noticed that, huh?"

"Dude! You're not exactly subtle about it!"

Chance shrugged. "Well, I guess we've said all there is to be said about the Ilsa situation. It's not really our call to make. If she wants our help handling the situation with the board of directors, I'm sure she'll ask for it. Now will you please sit down? The part of the evening that requires coherent thought is now officially over."

"Why? Are you planning on distracting me now?"

"Maybe," Chance smiled.

Guerrero tilted his head and gave him a thoughtful look. "I think you're gonna have to be a bit more persuasive than that. Take off your shirt."

"My shirt?"

"Yeah, lose it."

Chance put his beer carefully on the floor and peeled off his shirt. "Better?" he asked.

Guerrero considered it for a moment whilst he slowly and deliberately looked Chance over. "Not really. Lose the jeans too."

Chance hesitated. He was all for getting naked with Guerrero, but there was something a bit unnerving at the way he was just standing there ordering him to remove his clothes as a voyeur rather than a participant. But Chance was relieved that he'd managed to push aside the difficult topic of conversation and shifted Guerrero's focus back to safer ground.

"Didn't ya hear me?" Guerrero asked. "Take off your jeans, Chance. Now."

As weird as it was, feeling so exposed as he removed his clothes with Guerrero just stood there watching him, Chance felt an unexpected thrill at following his orders. He stood up and unfastened his jeans, feeling a little ridiculous at how nervous he was as he pushed them down and stepped out of them.

Guerrero's lips curled into a sly smile as he took his time looking appreciatively at Chance's naked form. Chance felt awkward and extremely self-conscious, especially when Guerrero's gaze lingered on his rapidly hardening cock.

"Now, get on the bed." Guerrero actually took a step back as Chance walked across the room, making it clear that touching was not yet on the agenda. Chance sat on the edge of the bed and awaited further instructions. He didn't know exactly where Guerrero was going with this, but he liked the general direction, and the anticipation of waiting to hear what his next instruction was a definite turn-on.

"On the bed, Chance. Not on the edge." Chance pulled himself back on to the bed properly, and laid back against the pillows. "Now, I want to watch you touch yourself." Guerrero's tone was almost flat and unemotional, but Chance heard the slight catch that gave away the fact that he was definitely getting off on this.

Chance forced himself to push aside the deeply ingrained reluctance to perform the most private of acts in front of an audience, and reached down and began stroking his cock. Jerking off when he'd been going down on Guerrero earlier was one thing, but doing it so deliberately and openly just so he could watch was something else entirely. Partly out of habit, but also to combat his embarrassment, Chance closed his eyes.

"Look at me!" Guerrero commanded, and reluctantly Chance opened his eyes. He decided that the look on Guerrero's face was worth the embarrassment, and seeing him watching was starting to appeal to an exhibitionist part of himself that Chance didn't even know he had. He began to relax and enjoy the familiar sensation of his hand sliding over his cock mixed in with satisfaction of knowing that Guerrero was getting off on watching him. He ran his thumb over the head, smearing the pre-cum in circles around the tip as he reached down with his other hand and began softly rolling his balls between his fingers and tugging at them.

At that point Guerrero downed what was left off his beer and turned away to put it on the kitchen counter, but Chance didn't miss that he also had to adjust himself to relieve some of the pressure on his own hard-on. Any feeling of gaining some control over the situation that Chance might have had soon dissipated with Guerrero's next two instructions though.

"Suck your fingers. Get them good and wet."

Chance reluctantly took his hand away from his balls and obediently sucked his index and middle finger, coating them with saliva. Guerrero groaned and pressed one hand to his crotch, but made no further move to get himself off. Chance had guessed what was coming next, but hearing Guerrero say it was hotter than he'd expected.

"Finger yourself Chance. I want to watch you play with your ass."

He'd only ever tried this a couple of times before, and with limited success, but with Guerrero's eyes burning into his flesh, he found himself gasping and moaning with pleasure as he worked his fingers inside himself, finding that bundle of nerve endings that lit him up from the inside. His hand was still gripped around his cock, although his movements were becoming more frantic and erratic now. He was so was so close that the small part of his brain that could still think was screaming at him to just let go, to just come already, but this was Guerrero's show, he was calling the shots, and that included how and when it would end.

"Do you want to come, Chance?" His voice had lost slightly disinterested edge that he'd been trying to maintain and now it sounded scratchy and slightly breathless.

"Please, Guerrero… "

"Then do it!"

As soon as Guerrero said the words, Chance let out a broken cry and his body jerked and twitched as his cum fell thick and heavy across the tense muscles of his abdomen. For a minute or two all he could do was lie back and try to remember how to breathe, but then Guerrero's voice called him back from his stupor.

"I haven't finished with you yet, dude. Not even close."

Chance opened his eyes and saw that Guerrero was finally disrobing. He'd already removed his shirt, and was in the process of taking off his jeans. When he'd kicked them aside, he walked over to the bed and kissed Chance fiercely, making no allowances for the fact that he was still short of breath as his tongue delved into his mouth. Chance's senses were reeling as Guerrero's hands slid over his still thrumming body, and he moaned against his mouth as his fingers pinched at his nipples before roaming further down his body. At first he was too distracted by the kiss to really notice, but as Guerrero finally leaned back and let him gasp for some much needed oxygen, he became aware that Guerrero had run his fingers though the cum on his stomach.

Guerrero was biting and licking at his neck in a way that made Chance wish he still had the recovery time he'd had as a teenager, a wish that became even more fervent when he heard the words "roll over" growled into his ear.

As he lay on his stomach, it dawned on him what Guerrero was planning to do, and he was half hard again just thinking about it. Sure enough, a moment later he felt Guerrero's fingers sliding into his ass, lubricating it with his own cum. He was still riding the buzz from his orgasm , and his body felt a little raw and oversensitive, but he suspected that this was just what Guerrero had planned. Guerrero's fingers felt infinitely better nudging inside his body than his own had, and there was little to no resistance due to the fact he'd already fingered himself for Guerrero's viewing pleasure. Without the initial discomfort of that feeling of intrusion, Chance could focus on the pleasurable part of having Guerrero's fingers curling inside of him, and he was soon moaning and pushing back against his hand.

Apparently satisfied that Chance was suitably prepared, Guerrero slid his hands around his hips and pulled at him, encouraging him to get up on to his knees. Chance was a little anxious that, as hot as the idea of using his own cum as lubrication was, it would not be sufficient for what Guerrero had planned, and for a moment he wrestled with the idea of breaking the unspoken rules by telling him this. Before he could say anything, he heard the snap of a lid being closed, and he realised that Guerrero was way ahead of him. He glanced behind him and saw that he was already applying a generous coating of lube to his cock. Their eyes met for a moment, and the intensity in that look sent a ripple through Chance's gut, sending a fresh surge of blood to his cock.

Guerrero ran his hands over Chance's back, before settling on Chance's hips and then with one smooth motion, he buried his full length deep inside him. Chance cried out at the sudden sensation of being stretched to his limit, of Guerrero filling him so completely. Guerrero wrapped his arms around his waist, easing their bodies back until he sat back on his heels with Chance in his lap, his knees straddled either side of Guerrero's. He held him like that, making no to attempt to move, as he kissed Chance's back and shoulders, letting him adjust.

"Right here, right now, you're mine," Guerrero murmured between kisses.

Chance grasped at the arms encircling his waist, pulling them closer and moaned "Always."

Guerrero sighed. "No promises, Chance."

Chance dug his fingers into his arms and repeated the word, more firmly this time, "Always, Guerrero."

Slowly Guerrero began to roll his hips, loosening his grip on Chance's waist to allow him to draw back a little, before grinding back inside him. As much as he tried not to think about it, he kept hearing Chance's voice moaning the word 'always', going round and round in his head. It wasn't a promise he could ever hope for Chance to keep, and he could never hold him to it, but in the perfection of that moment, it felt real enough to believe in.

Chance leaned forward, bracing his hands on the bed, raising himself up and falling back in time with Guerrero's thrusts, making each stroke longer and more intense. By now, he was fully hard again, and Guerrero's hand encircled his cock, stroking him gently, but hard enough to make Chance moan at the friction on his over-sensitive body. If he could have found the words, he would have told Guerrero that this was it for him, this was all he needed, all he would ever want, but all he could force through his lips was Guerrero's name. Somehow he would tell him, later, when he could focus on something other than the pure ecstasy of their bodies working together, knitting their frayed edges into something whole and unbreakable.

Guerrero decided he only ever wanted to hear his name spoken like this, to only ever hear it when it was moaned by Chance when they were naked together. He thrust harder and faster into him, getting to his knees and pushing Chance forward until he was forced to rest his weight on his forearms. He worked his hand faster along the length of Chance's cock, matching the urgent tempo of thrusts, knowing that neither of them could keep up this pace for much longer.

Guerrero was only dimly aware that he was moaning Chance's name as his body clenched around him, pulling him over the edge as they came together, shuddering and clinging to each other as he managed a few last erratic thrusts. He collapsed, gasping for air, onto Chance's back, and then Chance's legs seemed to slip out from under him and they fell together in a tangled heap of sweaty limbs.

When Guerrero managed to drag enough oxygen into his body, he rolled off Chance onto his back, only to be dragged back towards him. Chance had wrapped his arm around his waist, and lay on his side, his body curled around him, almost as if to prove that in any configuration their bodies fitted together perfectly. Guerrero settled back into Chance's embrace, lacing his fingers together with the hand that rested against his belly.

"I meant it, Guerrero," Chance said, squeezing his hand.

Guerrero's chest ached as he finally admitted to himself that what they felt for each other was real, and as much as the idea terrified him, maybe it was love.

"I know."


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's note: Given up trying to predict when this one will be wrapped up!**

* * *

There was a sombre atmosphere in the office as the team gathered at Ilsa's request. Chance and Guerrero were the only ones who really knew for sure what the unscheduled meeting was about, but from the stern look on Winston's face, it seemed as though he had made an educated guess.

Ames had drawn her own conclusions too, after her routine snooping around the office revealed that Ilsa had cleared her desk. All her little personal items were gone too: her pot plants, the funny little glass ornaments that she kept on her desk, even the small wash bag full of cosmetics that she kept tucked away in the bathroom in what she thought was a safe place, hidden away from Ames' thieving fingers. It was the disappearance of the wash bag that bothered Ames the most. The other items were more obviously gone, which would make sense if Ilsa was planning some kind of dramatic gesture, but she thought her cosmetics were safe, so she hadn't taken them just for effect. Ilsa was really planning to leave. Ames glanced over at Winston, and wondered if he really had an idea about Ilsa's plans, or whether he was still brooding over the news about Chance and Guerrero being an item. It was impossible to tell.

"Thank you for all coming on such short notice," Ilsa said. She fidgeted with her watch as she spoke, before noticing the unconscious gesture, and firmly clasping her hands in front of her. "I'm sure you all have things you'd rather be doing, so I'll keep this short."

"It's a work day, Ilsa," Winston pointed out. "These miscreants ought to be working anyway."

"Yes, quite," Ilsa said with a polite little smile that flashed across her face far too quickly to be genuine. "I'm afraid a rather urgent situation has arisen and my presence is required at the headquarters of the Marshall Pucci Foundation."

"Well, I'm sure we can hold down the fort while you're away," Winston said.

_Oh god, _Ames thought_, he really doesn't have a clue!_

"You may need to do a little more than that," Ilsa said. "My stay in London is likely to be… a protracted one. Connie is stepping down from the board of directors, which leaves me in a rather precarious position with the Foundation." Winston's brows knotted into a deep frown as the implications of what Ilsa was saying sunk in. "Without Connie's support, the Foundation's continued assistance in what we… what you do here is totally out of the question. In fact even my own position within the Foundation hangs in the balance at the moment, which is why I must leave. I will not let my husband's legacy be hi-jacked by accountants and bureaucrats. It's not what Marshall would have wanted."

"Wait, the money's gone?" Ames asked.

"We managed for years without a full time benefactor, Ames," Chance said. "The Pucci Foundation has been very generous, but I'm sure we can get by like we did before."

"No, Ames does have a point," Ilsa said. "I will be leaving you in a difficult financial situation, but there are a couple of things that I have put in place that I hope will help. Firstly, I have bought this building outright. It is currently in my name, but, in deference to Chance and Guerrero's reluctance to register assets in their legal names, I will have the paperwork drawn up to transfer ownership to Mr Winston. I did not use funds from the Foundation, so there is no chance that they can seize it as an asset."

"You bought the building with your own money?" Chance asked. "Ilsa, we can't accept that! At least let us pay you what…"

"The building belongs to the team, Chance. I will not accept a penny of rent for it, not after everything you have all done for me. Consider it a parting gift from a grateful client for services rendered."

"A parting gift?" Winston said. "Surely you're not leaving permanently? I mean, once you straighten things out with the Foundation, you are coming back. Aren't you?"

Ilsa looked down at her hands, unable to meet Winston's gaze. "Honestly, I don't know."

Winston looked at Ilsa in disbelief before turning to Chance. "Aren't we going to do something about this?"

Chance shifted uncomfortably. "There's not a lot we can do about it."

"Are you kidding me? What about you?" Winston said jabbing a finger at Guerrero. "I know you must have some dirt on those directors!"

"Yeah, but…"

"Mr Winston!" Ilsa interrupted, her face flushed with outrage at Winston's suggestion. "I will not stoop to blackmail and extortion to manipulate Marshall's legacy!"

Guerrero bit his lip, and Ames caught the look he gave Chance. It had 'I told you so' written all over it.

"But Ilsa…"

"No buts! I do not want any interference from Guerrero, or the rest of you! Do I make myself clear?"

Winston huffed and grimaced with frustration, but reluctantly joined the others in giving her his word.

"Good. I have also made arrangements that will allow you to keep the surveillance vehicle and weapons. It took a little creative book-keeping to secure the funding for them anyway, so they are yours to keep." No one chose to point out the fact that she had obviously been manipulating the board herself in order to obtain gear for the team. "The computer equipment will have to be returned, I'm afraid. It has already been earmarked for another project. Guerrero, I trust you can ensure that all sensitive information is wiped from its memory before it is removed?"

"No problem. I can strip it back to basics without leaving any evidence of our, uh, upgrades," Guerrero said. She nodded her acknowledgement, but there was no sense of approval in the gesture. The less she knew about what he'd been up to, the betterl.

"Well, we all know that this isn't the first time I've said my goodbyes," Ilsa said, her body language daring anyone to make an issue of it. "So I shall keep this short. Ames, there is little point in me telling you to stay out of trouble, so instead I ask that you at least be careful." She embraced the younger woman briefly, before pointedly checking that she was still in possession of her watch.

Ames smiled and held out her hand. "Got to keep in practice though, Ilsa," she said, as Ilsa looked down at the diamond earrings Ames held out, her hands flying to her ears to confirm that, yes they were the ones she'd been wearing.

"Just be careful who you practice on," Ilsa said, retrieving the earrings. There was no question of allowing Ames to keep the pilfered jewellery this time. They had been a gift from Marshall, and right now she needed every single trace of him she had left, to remind her why she was walking away from the people she cared about, back to a life of tedious board meetings and responsibilities.

"Guerrero," she said holding out her hand. "It has been… an education." He accepted her hand and shook it, but as he did so, she planted an unexpected kiss on his cheek murmuring: "Please… just take care of him."

Guerrero nodded. There was no question as to who she was referring to, and Chance shifted awkwardly at the look of understanding that passed between them.

"Chance, I…" For a moment Ilsa seemed to flounder, and the façade she'd been working so hard to maintain slipped a little, revealing a glimpse of the turmoil that lay beneath.

"Ilsa," he said, taking her hands in his. For a moment it looked as though Ilsa was about to burst into tears, but she managed to hold them back, squeezing Chance's hands wordlessly.

"I'm sorry that…"

"Please don't apologise for anything, Chance," Ilsa interrupted. "There really is no need, not after everything you've done for me. Just promise that if there is ever anything I can do to assist the team in any aspect of your work, you will not hesitate to contact me."

"Of course," Chance replied, taking his cue from her to avoid addressing the personal in favour of keeping things more professional. "And thank you for all you've done for us."

"It was a pleasure, Mr Chance," Ilsa said with a painful looking smile, before dropping Chance's hands and turning away. "Winston, might I impose on you to walk me to my car?"

Winston looked a little taken aback by her request, but offered her his arm anyway. "Of course, Ilsa. It would be an honour."

The others watched in silence as Ilsa took his arm and they stepped into the elevator. As soon as the doors closed behind them, Ames let out an explosive sigh.

"Poor Winston!" She said. "He really didn't see that coming."

"And you did?" Guerrero asked.

"I had an idea that she might be leaving," she shrugged, "but with Chance out of play, I thought Winston might really have a shot."

"I had my doubts," he replied. "He took her out for dinner a few times but she never let him pay."

"So?" Chance asked.

"So, if she didn't let him pay, it obviously wasn't a date! At least not to Ilsa, anyway," Ames said, exasperated at Chance's cluelessness when it came to dating. "Poor guy. He had it bad."

* * *

Chance was helping Guerrero strip away some of the highly illegal hardware that was still hooked up to the computer in the conference room when Winston finally returned to the office. Although Chance probably knew his way around a computer better than most, what Guerrero was doing was way beyond his level of understanding, so his help mostly consisted of handing him the occasional tool and dumping electrical components in boxes to be dealt with later. Apart from the occasional muffled instruction issued from with in the bowels of the table, they worked in silence, which was why when Winston barrelled into the room, shouting the odds, they both jumped.

"Now, I don't know how you knew ahead of time about Ilsa leaving, but it's clear to me that you did and you chose not to share that information with me. But that's not the issue right now. Neither is fact that you two have been sneaking around for weeks doing God knows what, and let me be very clear on this: I'm as open minded as the next guy. I have no problem with the idea of two grown men having a sexual relationship, as long as there's no chance I'm going to walk in it, which lets face it, is a real possibility here. It wasn't too long ago that I found Chance 'entertaining' a former client on the kitchen table."

Guerrero had extricated himself from the inner workings of the table as soon as the rant began, and as Winston paused to draw breath, he shot an enquiring look in Chance's direction.

"That was well over a year ago!" Chance said, holding his hands up defensively.

Guerrero rolled his eyes. "Any danger of you getting to the point some time soon, dude? We're kinda busy here."

Winston glared at him. "Oh, I'm getting there, Guerrero. So let's put aside the fact that your sneaking around managed to totally humiliate Ilsa, who, may I remind you, would have left months ago were it not for Chance begging her to stay…"

"Hey!" Chance interrupted. "I did not beg her to stay! Well, not exactly. And besides, she'd already cancelled the flight before I even got there!"

"But you knew, Chance. You knew how she felt about you, and you knew that was the major reason she stayed! You don't think that your sudden announcement, coming out of the blue like it did, affected her deeply? 'Cause I'll tell you now it did! Even before Connie forced her hand like this, Ilsa was thinking about leaving, and I foolishly told her that you guys would want her to stay, that you would tell her as much. But when she called us together to say she was going, you didn't so much as blink!"

"Ilsa had to leave, Winston," Chance said. "It wasn't like anything we said was going to change that. I'd never ask her to choose between the Foundation and the team."

"But would it have killed you to show you cared?" Winston demanded. "Maybe tell her you'll miss more than her check book?"

"That's not fair. I did try…"

"Well you didn't try hard enough!" Winston shouted. They all stood in stunned silence for a moment.

"Look, dude, we all know you had your own agenda with Ilsa, and I get that you were hoping that something was gonna happen between you two, but it doesn't change the fact that Ilsa was going to leave whatever Chance said."

"How dare you…"

"He's right, Winston," Chance said, before Winston launched into another angry rant. "She didn't have a choice, not if she wanted to save her position on the board. She left here with her head held high. What's wrong with that?"

"She deserved to hear that you gave a damn, you caveman, that's what!"

"This argument is kinda circular, bro," Guerrero said. "I'm taking a break. Give me a shout when you're done." Chance nodded, and Winston glared at him as he left.

"Is this really all about me not asking Ilsa to stay?" Chance asked, once they were alone. "'Cause it kinda feels like there's something else going on here too."

Winston sighed. Chance could tell from the way he visibly calmed down after Guerrero left the room that he was definitely the reason for some of his anger.

"I feel like I don't know you anymore, Chance."

"Because of Guerrero?" he asked. "I'm still me, Winston, just… orientated slightly differently."

Winston frowned. "This has nothing to do with your sexual orientation, Chance. And to be honest I'm offended that you would even suggest that!"

"Then what is it ?"

"It's who you've chosen to get involved with, and the fact that you are already shutting me out. You knew Ilsa was leaving, and you chose not to tell me. Just like you chose not to tell me about this thing with Guerrero."

"We only found out about Connie leaving the Foundation last night. There wasn't really time to tell you about it. And as for my relationship with Guerrero, I guess I needed a little time to get used to the idea before I was ready to tell anyone else. I had to be sure."

"And are you?" Winston asked. Chance nodded. "I don't get it, Chance. You and Ilsa… there was real chemistry there. She was crazy about you!"

"I know, but I was never going live up to her perfect, dead husband. For a while there, when she thought he'd cheated on her, I thought maybe we stood a chance but…" He shrugged. "Marshall is always going to be Ilsa's ideal. If I really cared about her enough, I would have been able to live with that, but it turns out I don't. I could never be the man she wants me to be. Could you?"

"No. I'd hoped I might try but.." Winston shrugged. He'd obviously told Ilsa how he felt, and not gotten the answer he'd been hoping for. Chance's heart ached in sympathy for his friend, but he decided the safest thing to do would be to let the matter drop.

Winston seemed lost in his thoughts for a moment, before shaking it off and turning the conversation back to Chance. "So you turn your back on women altogether! Don't you think that's a little extreme?"

Chance laughed. "It's not like that, Winston. It just… happened."

"But why? Why now? And why, in God's name, with Guerrero?"

Chance shrugged. "Why did you fall for your wife? Why do any two people get together?"

"I loved Michelle. In many ways I still do. Is that really how you feel about Guerrero? It's not just some weird physical thing?" He could see that his questions made Chance deeply uncomfortable, but he didn't back down. He needed to hear his answer.

When Chance realised that this time he was having to give an honest reply, he took a deep breath and looked Winston in the eye. "Yes, that's how I feel. And no, it's not just a physical thing, weird or otherwise."

"And does Guerrero know?"

Something about the earnest way that Winston asked the question suddenly struck Chance as funny, and he couldn't help smiling as he replied. "Yeah, I think he knows."

* * *

Guerrero was half-heartedly perusing the contents of the refrigerator when Ames walked into the kitchen and flopped on to one of the chairs, popping her gum loudly. He sighed, deciding that he'd lost his appetite, and closed the door, deciding on making himself a cup if tea instead.

"So how's this thing gonna work without Ilsa's money then? Am I still gonna get paid or what?"

Guerrero filled the kettle and switched it on before he replied. "We get a case, if it works out and the client pays up, we get paid."

Ames frowned. "And if the client does pay up?"

"We don't get paid."

"So, no more regular pay checks then."

Guerrero shrugged. "Sometimes there's work, sometimes there isn't."

"Well, that blows."

Guerrero made his tea in silence, hoping that Ames would take a hint and leave him alone.

"What did she say when she kissed you?" Ames asked, either oblivious or indifferent to Guerrero's wish to drink his tea in peace. "Ilsa definitely said something to you earlier, what was it?"

Guerrero glared at her as he took a sip of what must have been scalding hot tea, but didn't reply.

"Hey, I'm only asking 'cause I wondered if she asking you to fix things with the board without letting on to Chance and Winston!"

"No, that's not what she said," Guerrero begrudgingly admitted.

"Well?" Ames persisted. "What did she say then?"

He sighed, deciding that it was going to be far easier to shut her up if he just told her, than to deal with her curiosity if he didn't. "She asked me to look after Chance."

"Huh. Well that's kind of stupid."

"Why?"

"'Cause it goes without saying!" Ames replied. "I mean, you two have been friends for like forever! Looking after him is kinda what you do! So the whole seeing each other thing is new, but you've always been there for him, right? Even when you guys were working for your old boss, being assassins or whatever. You guys have always been tight, so it's kinda weird for Ilsa to ask you to do something that you've always done anyway!"

She waited nervously for Guerrero to respond to what she'd said, worrying that she'd gone too far by bringing up the subject of their old boss, which was always a touchy subject. He looked strangely distant, and for a moment she wondered if he was going to reply at all.

"Yeah," he said, as something finally clicked into place. "Always."


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's note: Time for some thrilling heroics...**

* * *

They were discreet. At the very least, Winston had to give them that. In the weeks since Ilsa left, he had so far been spared the horror of walking in on Chance and Guerrero in flagrente, but he suspected it was only a matter of time before his luck ran out. As unexpected as it was, Winston liked to think he didn't have a problem with Chance suddenly hooking up with another man. After all, a person's sexual preference was only one aspect of who anyone really was. What really bothered him was the fact that it was Guerrero that Chance had gotten involved with.

Over the years, Winston had a built up a begrudging respect for Guerrero's skills, but when it came to the man himself, he wasn't sure that he really trusted him much more than when they first met. Guerrero was a closed book, especially when it came to his private life, and that was definite cause for concern. Winston was sure that he would worry over anyone he cared about getting involved with Guerrero, but Chance? He was more problematic than most.

Chance had a vulnerability to him that was all too easy to overlook when he was hurling himself into danger for the sake of his clients. The man thought nothing of staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, or taking on impossible odds to fight his way out of a tight spot. He was fearless when it came to risking his personal safety, almost to the point of recklessness, but beneath that adrenaline junky exterior beat a very fragile heart. Chance may not have been particularly articulate about his feelings, but he had cared deeply for people in the past, and had been devastated when they were snatched away from him. Winston knew about Maria and Katherine, but he suspected that they weren't the only ones who'd left emotional scars on Chance. He seemed to deal with the damage by holding back, by not letting himself make those kind of emotional connections again, and despite the reasons he'd given as to why he didn't pursue a relationship with Ilsa, Winston suspected it had a lot to do with this emotional self-defence mechanism.

Why did it have to be Guerrero that Chance finally opened up to? There was no doubt that they shared a hell of a history, but there had to be more to it than that. Winston just couldn't work out for the life of him what it was. He observed them carefully, very carefully in fact. Although he wanted to make sure that Chance was okay, he most definitely didn't want to see exactly what they got up to when they were alone together.

When it came down to it, Winston knew his hands were tied. If Chance wanted to be with Guerrero, there was nothing he could do about it, except be there for him if, and more likely when, the shit hit the fan.

* * *

"So, I just have to sneak back into the apartment block, grab the hard copies of the security footage from the third floor janitor's closet, get out, and hand the client and the discs over to the cops, and then he's in the clear."

"I don't know, Chance," Winston frowned. "Something about this just doesn't feel right."

"I swear I didn't kill her!" Clinton protested.

Winston felt sorry for the guy. Clinton was a nephew of an old friend from SFPD, and he had no doubt that he had nothing to do with the mess he now found himself embroiled in. He'd just had the bad luck of being on duty at the time when one of the residents of the apartment block where he worked security was beaten to death by her husband, a Navy SEAL. The police were on scene at the woman's apartment when he'd gone to hand over the security footage that showed the woman's estranged husband entering the building around the time of the murder. When he saw NCIS take charge of the crime scene however, he panicked and fled, hiding the security footage on his way out.

"We believe you, Clinton," Winston said. "That's not the issue here. I'm just concerned that the victim's husband is a Navy SEAL! Why risk trying to retrieve the discs ourselves when we could just tip off the police?"

"Because the dude is a SEAL," Guerrero said, exasperated that Winston still didn't get it, "and a highly decorated one at that! Which is why NCIS have jurisdiction here, not the cops. It's gonna look a whole lot better for the Navy if Clinton takes the rap for murder, rather than Lieutenant Grimes! The dude has just been awarded the Silver Star!"

"The cops don't even have access to the crime scene anymore, Winston," Chance explained. "Which means if we tip anyone off about the location of the security footage, it will be NCIS not SFPD who retrieve it. There's no guarantee that the discs won't just get 'lost' and then it's Grimes' word against Clinton's. Who do you think the Navy would rather pin this on?"

"I heard him, Winston!" Clinton said. "He told them that he saw me leaving that poor woman's apartment! He told them I killed her, and I need those discs to prove he was there and I wasn't!"

Winston frowned. "But surely once they investigate the scene…"

"My prints will be all over that apartment! She had me check and double check the locks and alarm system virtually every day! She was terrified that her husband would find her and hurt her!"

"But still…"

"Clinton's best hope of getting out of this without a murder conviction is if I go retrieve the discs myself," Chance said.

"And this has absolutely nothing to do with the you loving the idea of taking on a Navy SEAL, I suppose," Winston said doubtfully.

Guerrero grunted dismissively. "Dude, we've been there, done that. One little Frogman is not gonna be much of a problem."

Winston sighed. He'd hoped that there might be some benefits to Chance's new relationship, that maybe Guerrero would back him up when he tried to talk Chance out of taking unnecessary risks, but he'd had no such luck. Chance was as gung ho as ever, and Guerrero was always there to back him up, no matter what the risks were. They were still just as bad as each other, and it didn't look like that was going to change any time soon.

* * *

"'One little Frogman', that's what you said, wasn't it?" Winston said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Guerrero ignored him and studied the security feed on the monitors in front of him. There was a floor by floor search for the missing security footage under way, and it was only a matter of time before they reached the third floor janitor's closet. If their plan was going to have any hope of success, Chance had to move in now. Guerrero seemed unconcerned by the number of men in fatigues taking part in the search, despite the fact that a couple of them were armed with assault rifles in addition to their sidearms.

"Are we even going to get paid for this job?" Ames asked. "No offence Clinton, but you don't exactly look like the kind of guy who can afford to hire us."

The surveillance van was quite spacious, but with four people crammed in the back, it didn't leave much elbow room, so when Winston turned to glare at Ames, she got a whole face-full of disapproval, up-close and personal. "Not everything is about money, Ames."

"Jeez, Winston! You ever actually trim all that nasal hair, or are you just waiting until it's long enough to braid?"

"_Do you mind keeping the chatter down a bit guys?" _Chance asked via the comms link. _"The personal grooming tips can wait until after I've sneaked through an apartment block full of heavily armed military police."_

"Sorry dude," Guerrero replied, glaring at Ames and Winston. "I'll keep the kids quiet from now on."

"_Much appreciated."_

Winston glared at Ames, who responded by pretending to reach for the nasal hair in question. He slapped her hand away, and was about to give her a piece of his mind when Chance's voice came over the comms link again.

"_Winston, you can spank her later, but right now she needs to be moving into position."_

Ames poked out her tongue, and slipped out of the van before Winston had a chance to retaliate. Guerrero and Winston watched the monitors anxiously as Chance entered the building dressed as a delivery man. He was given a cursory pat-down by the security guard on duty who checked his fake ID before being waving him on through to the elevator, watched by a bored looking guy in fatigues.

"I don't see why we're even sending Ames in on this one," Winston grumbled. "Why complicate things when the place is jammed full of military police?"

"Never hurts to have a contingency plan, dude. If anyone catches on to what Chance is doing, it's gonna pay off to have someone else in the building for him to pass the discs off to."

"_Plus these Navy guys are totally hot," _Ames chimed in via the comms link.

"You just keep your hands to yourself, young lady! We've got a job to do here and don't you forget it!"

"'_Young lady?' Jeez, Winston, you're not my dad!"_

"_Uh, guys. A little quiet please? I'm on the third floor now."_

Winston looked like he was going to say something, but a meaningful look from Guerrero made him swallow his words, and concentrate on the monitors instead.

* * *

Ames breezed into the lobby of the building as if she owned the place, ignoring both the security guard and the military policeman, and headed straight for the elevator.

"Miss," the security guard called after her self-consciously. "Hey, miss!"

Ames spun round and gave him an exasperated look. "What?"

"Are you a resident here?" he asked, struggling to sound authoritative in front of the man in fatigues, who seemed amused by Ames' attitude. "If not I'll need to see some ID and…"

"Oh for goodness sake," Ames huffed. "Really? Every frickin' time?"

"I'm sorry miss but I've never…"

"It's bad enough that I've got to come in here every other day to water my boss's stupid plants for two weeks whilst she's lying around on some beach down in Florida, pretending to be at some dumb marketing seminar. Do I really have to go through the whole ID thing every frickin' time?"

"_Easy Ames," _Guerrero warned. _"Don't overdo it."_

"If you could just show me your ID and…"

"Here!" Ames rummaged around in her purse, fetching out a fake ID in the name of one Bethany Hicks and thrusting it in the man's face. "And I'm still going to apartment number 31 to water the plants of Ms Melanie Fry!"

"_It's Bly not Fry!" _Clinton said. _"She's got the name wrong!"_

"_Ames, it's Bly you idiot!"_ Guerrero repeated over the comms.

The security guy was already checking the name against the list of residents, and when he found apartment 31 he frowned. "There is no Melanie Fry in this…"

"Urgh! Are you deaf as well as stupid?" Ames sneered, determined to bluff her way through it. "I said 'Bly', with a B!"

"_She's really pushing it," _Winston muttered.

"_We got a problem?" _Chance asked.

"_No," _Guerrero replied. _"Ames is hamming it up a bit, but the douche on reception just waved her through anyway. She heading your way now. You need to get to that closet soon, bro. Looks like they've finished their sweep of the second floor and they're gonna be on your floor any minute now. Looks like they're gonna take the stairs."_

"_Is Grimes with them?"_

"_No, so keep your eyes peeled," _Winston replied.

"_I'm synching the cameras now," _Guerrero said. _"You've got two minutes max before the guard's monitor cycles back to the camera on the third floor corridor."_

* * *

Clinton had supplied Chance with the his master key so, after checking the corridor was clear, he let himself in and closed the door behind him. Fortunately he'd also provided him with a very clear description as to where exactly he'd stashed the discs, so he didn't have to waste time looking for them.

He retrieved the discs from the back of one of the shelves, behind some old paint cans, and stuffed the fake parcel that he'd used for his cover out of sight.

"Am I clear?" he asked.

"_Go now!" _Guerrero ordered.

Chance slipped back out into the corridor and headed back towards the elevator, but as the door shut behind him, he caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of his eye.

"_Shit! It's Grimes!" _Guerrero said. _"I think he clocked you! You're going to have to make the drop!"_

Chance quickened his pace, and to his relief Ames stepped out of the elevator and strode down the corridor towards him. She didn't so much as flinch as Chance dropped the discs and Clinton's key in to her bag on the way past.

* * *

There was a tense moment as Guerrero and Winston watched the monitors, waiting to see if Grimes had noticed the drop, but he ignored Ames completely in favour of tailing Chance.

"Take the stairs," Guerrero said. "His less likely to try anything in front of NCIS."

Chance walked past the elevator and pulled open the doors leading to the stairwell.

"Unless he panics," Winston added. "What if he thinks Chance is about to hand over the discs?"

"Still better than being trapped in an elevator with a homicidal SEAL, dude."

"What's that he's got in his hand?" Clinton asked.

Winston squinted at the scene for a moment. "Is that a gun?"

Guerrero zoomed in on the image of Grimes, before cursing and reaching for his gun. "It's a fucking grenade!"

They watched helplessly as Grimes yanked upon the door and ripped out the pin before tossing the grenade into the stairwell. He took cover back in the corridor, and seconds later the security cameras cut out.


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's note: Just to be clear, this fic won't feature a cross-over with the TV series NCIS. I use the term simply to refer to the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, the US law enforcement agency that investigates crimes in the U.S. Navy and Marine Corps. Sorry for any confusion!**

* * *

As the monitors cut out Guerrero went for the door at the back of the van, only to find his exit blocked by Winston's considerable body mass.

"Get out of my way," Guerrero said, in a low, dangerous tone.

"For fucks sake, Guerrero, think! A grenade just went off in a stairwell full of armed military personnel! You can't just -"

"Chance was in that stairwell!"

"And what do you hope to achieve by charging in there waving a gun around? They've just been attacked by an unknown assailant, how do you think they're going to respond to you storming in there? This is the definition of a shoot now, ask questions later situation! Hell, at this point I'm not sure they'd even bother with asking questions at all. You go in there waving a gun around, and they will shoot to kill!"

Clinton cowered in the corner as the two men faced off, yelling in each other's faces. Guerrero held his gun, safety off with his finger poised on the trigger, and although it was not yet actually pointed at Winston, everything about his stance screamed that it would only take a heartbeat to remedy this. Winston stood his ground, determined to wear Guerrero down with his words until he saw the logic of what he was trying to tell him. Clinton just hoped that he got though to him before Guerrero shot him.

"I'm not just going to sit here and do nothing!" Guerrero snarled.

"If you go in there half-cocked, you are putting Chance in more danger than he already is! Right now they will see him as an injured civilian and they'll help him. But if you go in there armed and angry, there's every chance they'll see you as a potential threat and will take you both down just to err on the side of caution!"

Guerrero stared unflinchingly at the mountain of flesh and bone that was blocking his exit. There was a wildness in his eyes that had Winston silently praying that he could reach whatever rational part of his mind that was still functioning. Guerrero's jaw was clenched, and Winston could see the veins standing out on his neck, his whole body was rigid with tension. The hand holding the gun seemed to move by its own volition, and Winston's blood froze as it turned in his direction.

"Guerrero, I need you to back the fuck down! As much as you'd love to shoot me and charge on in there, it will only make matters worse! Chance needs our help! You gonna calm down and help him, or are you gonna go get him killed? Your choice!"

His words finally broke through, and Guerrero's focus seemed to snap back to the van and the fact that he was aiming a loaded weapon in Winston's face. He eased his finger away from the trigger and lowered his gun. Winston was acutely aware that Guerrero had been perfectly willing to shoot him to get to Chance. His brain shied away from thinking about just how close a call he'd just faced.

Guerrero sank back into his seat in front of the monitors and stared at them in a slightly unfocused way. Winston considered trying to persuade him to holster his gun, but decided that as long as it wasn't pointed in his face, it wasn't worth the time and effort it would take to achieve.

"Is there no way to get those security cameras back online?" Winston asked. He knew they were probably useless to them now, but he hoped the question might help get Guerrero's head back in the game.

Guerrero shook his head. "The blast knocked out the cameras in the stairwell and most likely Chance's comms too. We need another way to get eyes in that stairwell."

It wasn't much, but Winston considered any verbal communication from him as progress at this point. Winston pulled out his cell phone and dialled Ames' number, putting the call on speaker phone.

"_What the fuck just happened!" _she hissed as she answered the call._ "It sounded like a bomb went off and the comms went dead! I think my ear is actually bleeding!"_

"Grimes threw a grenade into the stairwell," Winston explained. "It's knocked out the surveillance cameras and Chance's earpiece."

"_Oh fuck…"_

"Ames, we need you to be our eyes here. You have to go to the stairwell and tell us what you see."

"_Oh my god! It's going to be all blood and guts and body parts, isn't it? I don't think I -"_

"Ames, get a grip!" Winston interrupted, glancing a Guerrero to see what effect her panicked babbling had on him. Thankfully, rather than provoking him into another rash reaction, it actually seemed to help him regain some level of focus on the job at hand.

"Can you smell burning?" Guerrero asked. "Is there any sign of a fire? Has the sprinkler system or firm alarm gone off?"

"_No, nothing like that. There was just this huge bang and -"_

Guerrero let out a slow, heavily breath. It wasn't quite a sigh of relief, but it was close. "It sounds like it might have been a concussion grenade, maybe even just a flash-bang. Ames, you need to check out that stairwell and tell us what you see!"

"_No body parts splashed up the walls?"_

"Not by the sound of it, no," Winston said, wincing at her total lack of tact. "But you need to be careful. There's a whole heap of armed men in there who are likely to be pissed and looking for someone to shoot at. We don't know where Grimes is either, so for the love of god, don't let anyone see you!"

"_Okay. I'll take a look."_

The tension in the surveillance van was palpable as they waited for Ames to report back to them. They heard a faint click as Ames opened the door to the stairwell, and then some muffled groaning.

"Ames! What do you see?" Guerrero asked.

They heard the door click shut, and then there were a few seconds silence.

"What the hell is going on, Ames?" Winston asked.

"_Sorry, just wanted to put a bit of distance between them and me. Man, do they look pissed!"_

"What the fuck did you see?" Guerrero demanded, rapidly losing what little patience he had. "Is Chance okay? Is he hurt?"

"_I don't know! There just a heap of angry looking Navy guys shaking their heads and moaning. No one seems to be badly hurt or bleeding or anything, but I didn't see Chance!"_

"What do you mean you didn't see Chance?" Winston asked as Guerrero cursed, getting up and kicking the side of the van in frustration.

"_I mean, he wasn't there!"_

"Are you sure?" Winston asked.

"_Yes, I'm fucking sure. He's not there!"_

"What about Grimes, you see any sign of him?"

"_No."_

"Do you have the discs?" Winston asked.

"_Yes."_

"Fuck the damn discs!" Guerrero snapped.

Winston made some vague calming gestures with his hands. "Let yourself into apartment 31 and wait for us to come to you," he said to Ames. "Do not open the door for anyone, you understand?"

"_Yeah."_

* * *

The first thing he was aware of was pain. Details like which way was up or down, whether it was day or night, and just where the hell he was, paled into mundane matters of geography compared to the all encompassing pain that demanded, and was getting, all of Chance's attention. He was dimly aware that his vision was obscured by something over his face, and that his limbs seemed to be restrained by… something, but the closer his mind swam to consciousness, the worse the pain got.

It started with the hot, searing pain in his head, which began as a localised throbbing to one side that suggested that at some point, he had been hurled against something solid and immovable. A wall? The ground? Even as he tried to dredge up a recent memory that might explain such an injury, other parts of his body seemed to check in with their own complaints, adding new notes of discomfort to the cacophony of pain. His jaw throbbed in a familiar sort of way that told him he'd been punched at least once, and the way his aching ribs protested with every breath argued that his assailant hadn't stopped at one blow. He couldn't come up with any explanation for the excruciating pain that was radiating out from his left shoulder though, and the more alert he was, the more persistent it grew. It felt strangely liquid in the way that it flowed down through his arm, constant and unrelenting, but it was bearable, just.

He heard an engine start up, and he barely had time to register the fact that he was tied up in the back of a vehicle of some sort, before the driver pulled away. Chance instinctively tried to brace himself to avoid being jostled around, but that proved to be a mistake. As soon as he tried to move his arms a bolt of sizzling agony ripped through his shoulder, knocking the breath from his body. The pitch black in front of his eyes was briefly lit up by dancing points of light before he slipped back into oblivion.

* * *

Guerrero had already done fairly extensive research into Lieutenant Grimes' background before they had attempted to retrieve the discs, but he obviously hadn't dug deeply enough. They'd been working under the assumption that Grimes was simply planning on framing Clinton for his wife's murder, but if that was the case, why did he toss that grenade? Guerrero suspected that it was something other than panic because Grimes had had the forethought to have the grenade on him, even before he'd spotted Chance acting suspiciously. If it wasn't panic then it had to be a deliberate act, and an irrational one at that from a man trying to get away with murder.

He barely noticed when Winston told him he was going in to escort Ames safely out of the apartment building, he had already pulled out his laptop and was scrutinising Grimes' file, searching for anything he might have missed the first time round. He was limited as to what he could access without drawing attention to himself; most of the operations Grimes had taken part in were classified, therefore the records were extremely well protected. It would take time to hack them safely, time he didn't have. He hadn't seen the point in trying to access them before. It had seemed unnecessarily risky when they already knew he was guilty of murder, and they had the means to acquire the evidence to prove it, but given Grimes' irrational behaviour, it was now essential to find out more.

He stared at the screen for a moment, racking his brain for a way to get at the information he needed, when he noticed that there was an attachment to the file concerning his latest mission. The document itself was classified but the attachment, for some reason, was not. He opened it up, but his heart sank when he found that all it contained was a single line of text.

_Extended medical leave. Permission for private assessment granted._

Guerrero frowned and sat back, trying to think of a reason why a decorated Navy SEAL would choose not to take advantage of government funded healthcare. Grimes was from an affluent, well-connected family, so they could afford to pay for the best doctors, but what was wrong with him that he didn't want his superiors to know? He'd already looked into Grimes' own financial records and found nothing out of the ordinary, so perhaps it was time to take a look at his parents. Hacking into bank records was a much simpler task than accessing classified military documents, and it didn't take long for him to find what he was looking for, a substantial payment to a Dr Heatly.

The van doors swung open, making Clinton yelp with surprise. Winston climbed back into the van and slammed the door behind him.

"No Ames?" Guerrero asked, not looking away from his laptop.

"Can't get into the building," Winston grumbled. "They're claiming that there was a small explosion due to a gas leak, and they're not letting anyone in or out. Ames figures she stands a better chance sneaking out on her own via a fire escape."

Guerrero glanced at Winston, as if he was about to make a disparaging comment about his size but thought better of it. Winston was relieved that he seemed to have regained his composure somewhat.

"Grimes is nuts," Guerrero said.

"Yeah, well the grenade was kind of clue there…"

"No, I mean he's really nuts," Guerrero said. "He's been seeing a shrink. I think there's more to this than him just waking up on day and deciding to murder his wife."

"You think it's some kind of post-traumatic stress thing?" Winston asked.

"I don't think so no. If it was PTSD why not just let Uncle Sam pick up the bill for his treatment? I think he's been trying to hide whatever is wrong from his superiors. It's got to be something that would end his career."

"Makes sense I guess," Winston said.

"The doc's office isn't far from here. I think I should drop by and talk to him. Maybe Grimes has told him something that could lead us to him."

"Either Chance has followed Grimes or he was taken against his will," Winston mused. "Either way we need to find Grimes, and fast, before anyone else gets hurt. I'll take Clinton and the discs to the cops, although at this point I don't think Grimes is too concerned about the footage."

"There's definitely something else going on here," Guerrero said, "and I think the doctor is our best chance of finding out what." He tucked his gun away and slipped out the door, closing it almost silently behind him.

Winston didn't exactly feel good about letting Guerrero take off on his own to question the doctor, but he had a responsibility to get the client to safety, and he knew there was no chance that Guerrero would wait around while he took Clinton to the cops.

"But surely the doctor won't tell him anything," Clinton said. He hadn't wanted to risk angering the temperamental man by intruding on the conversation, but he found his voice again once Guerrero was gone . "I mean, doctor-patient confidentiality and all that…"

"Confidentiality doesn't mean a whole hell of a lot to Guerrero," Winston explained. "If the doctor knows anything useful, he'll tell him."

* * *

The pain was still there waiting for Chance the second time he drifted back to consciousness, but his surroundings had definitely changed. The air was cooler, and although some kind of hood still covered his head, there was a sense of space and subdued light that hadn't been there before. The ground beneath him was also cool, but also hard and unforgiving. He hazarded a guess that he was lying on the concrete floor of some kind of shed or garage. He could just make out a faint metallic tang in the air, along with a hint of what might have been motor oil.

Trying to move was definitely not a good idea; his shoulder was still extremely painful and most likely dislocated. He knew that any attempt to move any part of his upper body was likely to jar it, and he had no intention of passing out again. He tried to focus on what else he could hear and smell, partly to distract himself from the pain, but also to learn as much as he could about his current situation. His recent memory was still a bit of a blur, but he remembered walking into the apartment building and hearing Winston and Ames squabbling through his earpiece, but whatever happened after that was still a blank. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the trunk of a car, bound hand and foot.

It occurred to him that his hands lay by his sides and were no longer tied behind his back, and he decided to risk trying to move his legs, to see if they were free too. He was in no condition to fight, but maybe if his legs were free he might at least be able to make a run for it, assuming he could find a way to get to his feet without blacking out. He was lying on his back, his legs crossed at the ankles, so he tried to gently slide one foot away from the other, but it was impossible. Evidently only his captor had only removed the bonds on his wrists.

"Good," a man's voice said. "You're awake. I'm getting a bit bored with you drifting off like that. No discipline. No discipline at all." The man's footsteps didn't make a sound as he walked towards him, but from the sound of his voice, Chance could tell he was moving closer. "Looks like I'm going to have to fix you before I can break you."

Chance barely had time to draw breath to reply before he felt a dull weight suddenly crush his chest, knocking the wind out of him. It took a moment for him to realise that the unseen man was now kneeling on his chest. The man grabbed Chance's left wrist and bent his elbow so his arm formed a right angle across his stomach. Chance knew what was coming next, but as the man on his chest began to rotate his left arm away from his body, forcing his dislocated shoulder back into alignment, he could do nothing, not even take a deep breath, to brace himself for the pain. Muscles, ligaments and tendons were stretched and distorted to allow the bone to slide back into place, and despite his determination to stay conscious, the bone-crunching agony, combined with the man's weight on his chest restricting his breathing, proved too much. He didn't even have the breath to cry out before he fell back into the darkness again.


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's note: Chance whump ahead and it's not going to be pleasant. You have been warned!**

* * *

As Guerrero approached the door to Dr Heatly's office he saw a woman walk out and lock the door behind her. She looked at him warily.

"Is the doctor in?" he asked.

She shifted her purse on to her shoulder. "Dr Heatly is at lunch until two o'clock, and even then you will require an appointment."

Guerrero nodded. "I'll call back later then."

The woman watched him suspiciously for a moment, and Guerrero pulled out his cell phone and wandered a little further down the hall, as if he was seeking a little privacy to make a call. This seemed to satisfy the woman that he wasn't about to kick the door down, and she headed towards the elevator. He waited until the doors slid shut behind her before dropping his cell back in his pocket and pulling out his lock picks. If the doctor was out to lunch he'd have a chance to take a look at his files before speaking to the man himself, and if he was having lunch in his office, he could skip straight to the interrogation.

It turned out to be the latter.

"Mary always tries to persuade me to have lunch away from the office," the doctor said, placing the sandwich he'd been holding back into the Tupperware container in front of him. He dusted the crumbs off his hands and looked up at the man standing in the doorway. "She thinks that eating in my office means that I don't enjoy a proper break. I think maybe today she's right. What can I do to help you Mr…?"

"You treat a Lieutenant Simon Grimes."

"I can't discuss my patients," Heatly said, leaning back in his chair. "Aside from the confidentiality issue, I don't even know who you are."

"I know you treat Grimes, and I know the guy has more than a few screws loose."

"And?"

"And I know something you don't."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

The doctor took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Okay, for the sake of argument, I'll concede that Lieutenant Grimes is under my care. Anyone could observe him entering my office twice a week, so that really doesn't count as privileged information. It is also in the public domain that his wife was murdered yesterday. I don't know what you think you know but-"

Guerrero grunted. "Dude, we both know he offed his wife. That's old news, and to be honest I couldn't care less." He stepped into the office and shut the door behind him, locking it. "What I know, that you don't, is that he threw a grenade into a stairwell full of people today. Mostly they were military police, but my colleague was also in that stairwell, and now both he and Grimes are missing."

"I see."

"No, I don't think you do."

"Oh, I think I understand perfectly. You're a man of violence, that much is obvious. The way you walked in here like you owned the place - I take it you picked the lock to get in? Mary finds my clientele very intimidating and she would have triggered her personal alarm if you had tried to push past her, so you must have waited for her to leave, and she always locks the door behind her. Then there's your clothes: casual, non-descript and chosen, I suspect, to hide that shoulder holster. I wouldn't be surprised if those boots didn't hide a knife or two either."

"Yeah, I get it. You're a shrink. You read people."

"I wasn't always a shrink," the doctor said, smiling. "I was a marine. And I know a mercenary when I see one. Right about now is the time when you should start issuing threats and ultimatums. In fact, I'm surprised you didn't lead with that. From your demeanour, I'd hazard a guess that it isn't just business to you, this seems to be a rather more personal issue."

"Yeah, it's fucking personal. What's the deal with Grimes?"

"As I said, that's not something I'm willing or able to discuss."

"You're right," Guerrero said. "I would normally start issuing threats, but we both know that you are the only person who has the information I need to find Grimes, so your life isn't really in danger." The doctor nodded. "And usually I would have done some research in to your life, to establish your pressure points. Everybody has them, someone they care about, a parent, a spouse, a child; or it maybe another aspect of their lives, their career or reputation perhaps. But I confess, I haven't had the time to find yours Dr Heatly."

"That does seem to weaken your position somewhat, Mr…?"

"Guerrero."

The doctor tried to keep his expression impassive, but Guerrero caught the subtle shift in his body language that gave away the fact the doctor was familiar with his name.

"You've heard of me," Guerrero said, his icy stare unwavering as he observed and catalogued the minute signs of stress on the doctors face: the set of his jaw, the slight tension around his eyes, and one telltale bead of sweat slowly forming on the man's upper lip. "That should expedite things a bit."

"If you are who you say you are, then yes, I have dealt with the aftermath of your handiwork on more than one occasion. I specialise in treating veterans with PTSD, but I am well aware that there are things that can damage the human mind far more than warfare."

"So you know I am good at what I do." The doctor nodded again. "As I said, I usually find a person's pressure points, but in this instance your patient has had the misfortune of stumbling across one of mine. There is nothing I wouldn't do to ensure my colleague's safety, and I mean nothing. Usually I would tailor my actions to target the people in your life that mean the most to you, but as time is of the essence here, I will take a less focused approach. I will simply kill everyone in your life: friends, family, neighbours, the chick who cuts your hair, the kid who bags your fucking groceries. Everyone you even so much as speak to will die. Everywhere you go, people will suffer and die."

The doctor's face went gray and bloodless as the scale of what Guerrero was threatening him with sank in. Guerrero glanced at the clock on the wall. "At two o'clock Mary will be back at her desk. That seems a good place for me to start. I'll even let you watch as I rip her throat open and let her bleed to death."

"This man, your colleague, is he really worth taking those kind of risks?" Heatly asked, in a desperate attempt to appeal to his sense of self-preservation. "Murder on the scale you're talking about would certainly mean that your own freedom, your own life would be in jeopardy."

"I know," Guerrero replied. "But without him… Failure is not an option here. Your choice: tell me what you know or face your own private Armageddon."

* * *

It wasn't pain that roused Chance the next time, it was the biting shock of the iced water that was dumped over his head and torso. As he spluttered and gasped for air, he realised that the hood covering his face had been removed, and he was momentarily grateful for this, before he realised that if his captor didn't care about him seeing his face, the odds were he wasn't planning on letting him get out of this situation alive. His captor had also removed his jacket, shirt, shoes and socks, leaving him wearing only his underwear and the pants from his delivery guy disguise. His feet were still bound together, and his captor had retied his hands behind his back. The pain in his shoulder had subsided to a dull persistent ache now that it was no longer dislocated, but the head injury and the damage to his ribs still left him feeling dizzy and nauseated.

A hand grabbed at his hair and jerked his head back. "On your knees!" a man's voice ordered. Chance recognised it as the same voice he'd heard earlier, from the man who'd fixed his shoulder, but he couldn't get a look at him because he was standing behind him. Chance managed so struggle awkwardly to his knees, not a task that was made any easier by the way the man was still gripping his hair.

The man placed a booted foot on the back of Chance's calves, to prevent him from trying to stand up, and released his hair in order to pass something through whatever was binding his ankles together. Once he had secured Chance's ankles to a ring set in the concrete floor, he removed his foot from Chance's legs.

"Look, I don't know who you think I am, but-" A hand came out of nowhere and smacked the injured side of his head in an open handed blow that brought back the bright points of light dancing in front of his eyes. He shook his head, trying to clear his vision and stave off another blackout. The hand grabbed at his hair again, steadying him before a noose of electrical cable was placed around his neck, and pulled just tight enough to ensure that he had to stay kneeling up to prevent himself from being choked. The man added another restraint, securing something to the bonds on Chance's wrists then fastening it off on the metal ring set into the floor.

Chance now had no option but to kneel perfectly still; he could neither stand up nor sit down. It didn't feel too bad to start with, but he knew that being forced to maintain the same position for a prolonged period of time would prove to be exhausting and painful. He couldn't help shivering, the icy water had soaked through his pants, and the cool air of the garage against his wet skin only added to his discomfort.

Apparently satisfied that Chance was adequately restrained, his captor walked in front of him and faced him for the first time. As soon as Chance saw his face, a flood of memories returned: retrieving the discs and passing them to Ames; Grimes following him down the corridor; starting down the stairs; the sound of the grenade rolling down the steps before the deafening explosion that had knocked him from his feet and sent him tumbling head first into a wall. He been disoriented, his vision blurred from the impact with the wall, and then Grimes had been standing over him. He'd kicked him in the ribs, and Chance had been too dazed to do much more than grab his foot and hold on, to stave off any more kicks. It was then that Grimes had punched him, slamming his head against the wall and knocking him out cold.

"What are you trying to achieve here, Grimes?" Chance asked, taking advantage of the fact that his hands were out of Grimes' line of sight to investigate what he'd used to bind his hands and feet. It seemed to be more electrical cable, hopelessly knotted and twisted into a tangle that Chance would have been hard pushed to unravel even if he could see it. There was absolutely no give in the cable, and there seemed to be at least five ends which suggested that there were at least three pieces of cable involved, and that was just in what was binding his wrists together.

Grimes stared at him for a full minute, as if he were expecting Chance to attack him, despite the fact that he was bound tight, and effectively helpless. Chance was careful to maintain eye-contact, even as he took in the details of his surroundings with his peripheral vision. It seemed he had guessed correctly; he was being held in a garage, but he didn't risk looking around him. It seemed to be a fairly standard domestic garage, with the usual collection of tools and junk. His current predicament didn't allow him enough range of movement to make use of anything in his surroundings, so his priority was to attempt to build some kind of connection with Grimes himself, to buy Guerrero and Winston enough time to find him.

"I know," Grimes said cryptically, as if Chance was supposed to know what the hell he meant.

"Know what?" Chance asked.

"I know!" Grimes repeated, more sharply this time, holding something up between his forefinger and thumb. It took Chance a moment to recognise the object, but then he realised it was his ear-bud. In all the confusion, he hadn't even registered that it was gone.

"You watch and you listen and you follow! You think I didn't know you were there, but I know! You follow and you judge and you test me! You don't think I know that it's all a test? Well I do! I know!"

Chance's heart sank as he realised that making any kind of connection with Grimes was going to be impossible, his grip on reality was far too tenuous, and he clearly had some kind of persecution complex. Chance had seen this kind of thing before, back when he'd been working for the Old Man. If a man was pushed too far, if he didn't learn to compartmentalise the horrors he seen, and more importantly those that he'd inflicted, his mind could fall apart under the pressure. It was bad enough if it happened to a member of a unit, at least then there were people to notice and contain the situation; but if the man was working alone or undercover, the paranoia and feelings of persecution would spin out of control, unnoticed and unchecked until the man became a time bomb waiting to go off.

He knew that Grimes was too far gone to reason with. Attempting to do so was likely to anger him further, but if he said nothing at all it would make it easier for Grimes to dehumanise him altogether. He had to find a way to interact with the madman that would engage him without enraging him.

"I wasn't following you," Chance said. "That wasn't my assignment."

Grimes dropped the earpiece to the floor and trod on it, grinding it beneath his boot as if he were extinguishing a cigarette. "You're lying," he said. "There's no point lying to me. I know!"

Chance saw the move coming, but there was nothing he could do to avoid the kick Grimes aimed at his ribs. He braced himself as best he could, aware that if he was knocked off his knees the noose around his neck would tighten and strangle him. Chance felt rather than heard the crack as Grime's boot connected with his ribs. He was winded, and the sharp pain in his side, along with the sickening crack, told him that he'd broken at least one rib, but although breathing was painful, at least it didn't seem that he'd punctured a lung.

"I know that you've been testing me!" Grimes hissed at him, literally spitting with rage. "And now I'm going to test you! How well did they train you? Just how much punishment can you take before you crack and beg me to end it? There's nothing you can bargain with because I already know! I know everything! I know that this, that you, are a test too. My final test. Just me and you. You and me. What have they sent me? What do they think I can I can handle?" His voice trailed away from a shout to a mumble as he walked away from Chance, repeating the words "me and you" to himself as he began routing around in a battered old holdall that sat on the workbench that stood alongside one wall.

Chance realised that this was not an interrogation or a hostage situation, Grimes intended to torture him, pure and simple. There was no way to reason with him, and there was no way he could free himself, so all that was left was to endure whatever Grimes had planned, and hope that Guerrero found him in time. As much as he respected Winston, this was definitely a Guerrero situation.

It wasn't much of a consolation, but at least it seemed as though Grimes was determined to do well in his 'test', which probably meant that he wasn't likely to rush into killing him.

Grimes pulled a thick leather belt from the holdall and ran it through his hands a couple of times, before wrapping the end of it around his hand, leaving the end with the heavy metal buckle trailing to the floor. He walked slowly across the garage, the buckle scraping and skittering across the concrete floor behind him. Chance had plenty of time to observe the large metal studs set into the leather at regular intervals before Grimes took up his position standing behind him.

Chance steeled himself for the first blow, trying to create a distance between his conscious mind and the physical reality of his situation, but the anticipation was almost worse than the infliction of pain itself. Once the beating had begun, he'd have something to deal with, something for his mind to push back against, but the uncertainty of waiting for that belt to fall against his flesh made him vulnerable and unfocused.

"You lose marks for hesitation, you know," Chance said, out of pure bravado, trying to provoke Grimes into just getting on with it, preferring the certainty of pain to the psychological torture of just kneeling there, waiting for it to begin.

Chance felt a twisted sense of victory as the belt lashed against his back, leaving a fiery welt across his chilled skin. The metal studs bit deep into his flesh, and the heavy buckle gouged into his shoulder, but he grit his teeth and didn't make a sound. His body had taken this kind of punishment before, and there was nothing he could do to prevent what was happening to it now. What was important was to protect his mind, his sense of self, and to do that he had to try and detach himself as much as possible from the situation. He focused on the one person who had never let him down, whom he could trust without question, the man who even now would be tearing the city apart looking for him.


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's note: Sorry for the slow updates folks. I just want to get this one right!**

* * *

Winston's cell rang as he headed back to the van. He'd left Clinton with his uncle at SFPD, along with the security footage from the apartment block, and when he spotted Guerrero's name flash up on his cell phone, he quickened his pace, eager to get behind the wheel so he could get moving and find Chance.

"Guerrero-"

"_I got a lead from the doctor," _he interrupted. _"Grimes' wife inherited a property out by Half Moon Bay. I'm heading out there now."_

"How can you be sure that he's even there?"

"_Grimes let something slip in one of his sessions about his wife inheriting her grandfather's old house and he said it was a safe place for him. Something about there being no cell coverage so They can't spy on him."_

"They? Who are 'They'?"

"_The Navy, the government, the little green men, who the fuck knows? Doc recons Grimes has had some kind of psychotic break. He's paranoid, and right now he'll be looking for somewhere to hole-up, out of sight. The doc recons that he sees Chance as a threat and is probably planning to interrogate him."_

"Okay, what's the address? We'll meet you there."

"_I can handle Grimes, but I need you to run interference with NCIS. The doc says that Grimes is batshit crazy. If he gets one whiff of the Navy or the cops moving in on him, he's likely to panic and kill Chance."_

"They'll want to talk to the shrink-"

"_Taken care of, dude. Just need you to keep them chasing their tails so I can get Chance out before they show up and fuck things up."_

"You didn't…?"

"_Relax. The shrink's with me. I figured he might as well make himself useful. If he can't talk Grimes down, he can at least provide a distraction."_

"NCIS are still gonna head to his office though," Winston said. "They might be able to get something from his records."

"_Also taken care of. They'll need a warrant to get the records, and by the time they get it a small electrical fault will have fried the doc's hard drive and started a fire that will have burned up any paperwork lying about the place. Just make sure you send them anywhere but Half Moon Bay. I'll take care of the rest."_

"But how am I supposed to-"

"_Improvise."_

Winston swore as Guerrero hung up on him. He could track down the address of the house in Half Moon Bay from what Guerrero had told him, and part of him wanted nothing more than to high-tail it over there to help Chance, but he couldn't deny that it was more important for him to deal with NCIS.

"So?" Ames asked. "Has Guerrero found them or what?"

"He's got an address. He's heading there now with the shrink."

"Well let's go! What are you waiting for?"

Winston sighed and turned the key in the ignition. "We're going back to the apartment block. You think you can sneak back in the way you came out?"

"Yeah, but why would I want to?" Ames asked, puzzled.

"Because Bethany Hicks had a little run in with Lieutenant Grimes in the hallway and she overheard him talking about heading for the docks. She needs to be back in position in the building to give NCIS a hot tip about where to find Grimes."

Ames frowned, "So Grimes is heading for the docks? Why don't we-"

"No, we just want NCIS to think that's where he's heading so Guerrero can… Ah, screw it. Just get back in the building and make sure they start looking for Grimes at the docks. Okay?"

* * *

It was a forty minute drive out to the property at Half Moon Bay, so it was inevitable that at some point Heatly was going to try and initiate a conversation. He seemed to take his abduction fairly well, especially considering that he was familiar with Guerrero's reputation; but the fact that he was cuffed to the passenger seat, along with the presence of his distraught secretary in the trunk, was added incentive to keep a cool head. He was still a psychiatrist though, so whether it was out of professional curiosity, or more likely in an attempt to try and manipulate the situation to his benefit, he tried to draw Guerrero into conversation.

"If Grimes has reached the point at which he is openly acting on his on his delusions of persecution, there may be little I can do to influence him," he said, once Guerrero had ended his phone call.

Guerrero shrugged, apparently indifferent to what the doctor had just said. Heatly waited a while, giving him a chance to reply, but none was forthcoming. Guerrero kept his eyes on the road and maintained a speed a hairsbreadth below the limit.

Heatly tried a different approach. "Facing Grimes alone may not be the best way to help your friend. Although the presence of law enforcement is likely to push him into doing something rash, trying to take him out on your own is suicidal. You'll be of no use to your friend if you're dead."

"Not planning on letting him kill me, doc. Besides, I'm not going in alone. You're gonna get him talking, keep him distracted while a make my move."

"Grimes is a deeply disturbed individual, but that won't affect his instincts and training. He is still a SEAL and he's not going to go down easily."

Again Guerrero shrugged, as if taking on a psychotic Navy SEAL was just one of those things that had to be done from time to time.

"And what if you do manage to deal with him? What happens to Mary? And me? You're just going to let us go?"

"Well, that depends on you. As long as you make yourself useful, you and Mary have nothing to worry about. Not from me anyway. I can't say that the Navy will feel the same way though."

"I don't know what-"

"Come on doc, I know you're supposed to be good, but not even you would normally receive payments upwards of five grand per session. The Grimes family were paying you off to keep a lid on just how severely fucked up their son is. Judging from your notes, Lieutenant Grimes isn't just a little shell-shocked, he has full-blown paranoid schizophrenia. He should have been institutionalised until his condition could be stabilised, and you had a responsibility to inform the Navy that he was unfit for duty. You could have prevented his wife's death; at the very least you're looking at a clear case of criminal negligence."

He doctor paled, but didn't reply.

"Of course it would be difficult to make a case against you since all your records were destroyed, but I emailed copies of Grimes' files to a friend of mine. If for any reason I don't make contact with him by midnight tonight, he'll ensure that those files are seen by the right people. But as long as you pull your weight, you have nothing to worry about."

Heatly sat in silence for the rest of the journey.

* * *

Chance had no way to gauge the amount of time he'd been held in the garage. It felt like hours, maybe even a full day, but he knew that was more to do with the circumstances than the actual passage of time. Grimes had beaten him with the belt until his back felt like a raw, pulpy mess, and Chance observed the splatter of his own blood hit the concrete floor from time to time. He'd managed to create that distance he needed between his physical and mental state, but although he could watch his blood hit the floor fairly dispassionately, it was not something he could keep up indefinitely.

He still hadn't spoken since he'd goaded Grimes into striking that first blow, but with each lash of the belt against his back, it got harder to remain silent. It was growing increasingly difficult to hold his body rigidly in position to ensure that the noose around his neck didn't draw any tighter, and the immobility was building a slow ache in his joints that, as he'd predicted, only got worse the longer he had to maintain his position kneeling on the concrete floor

The fact that he was being held in what seemed to be a domestic garage led him to believe that he was probably in a residential area, but knowing that there were probably people within shouting distance didn't really help him. If he tried to call out, all Grimes would have to do was give him a shove and the noose would tighten, cutting off his voice, along with his air supply, in seconds. Even if he could have attracted someone's attention, what then? He'd be putting an innocent bystander in danger for nothing. His only option was to keep quiet and wait for Guerrero, so that's what he did.

Perhaps Grimes got tired, or maybe he was bored of repeating the same action with no audible response from Chance, but eventually he tossed the metal studded belt on to the workbench and began rummaging through his holdall again. The brief respite did nothing to help Chance. His back was so raw that without the distraction of fresh blows being rained down on his body, he could feel every heartbeat pulsing through the mangled flesh of his back, building into a unrelenting burning that increased with every passing second.

When Chance saw Grimes retrieve a military grade stun gun from the holdall, he found himself hoping that Grimes had expertise with using the device for the purposes of torture. If he was inexperienced with using a stun gun to inflict pain, rather than to incapacitate, there was a risk that he would apply a prolonged shock that could send Chance's muscles into spasm. If that happened there was every chance that he would be knocked from his knees and the noose would strangle him.

Grimes pulled up a lawn chair and sat behind Chance, letting the anticipation build for a moment. The pressure to say something, to fill that silence was immense, but Chance resisted the urge to provoke him further, knowing that he was only likely to get through this if Grimes maintained some level of control. Apparently Torture 101 was covered in SEAL training though, because Grimes did know what he was doing. He started with Chance's bare feet, applying jolts that were excruciatingly painful, but not enough to induce convulsions. Silence was no longer an option, as each jolt of electricity ripped through the soles of his feet and sent bolts of pain up his legs and through his body, forcing an involuntary grunt from his lips. Grimes took his time, letting Chance recover for a few seconds before reapplying the current, alternating from time to time between his feet and his fingertips. The repeated shocks were exhausting as well as painful, and Chance found it harder to focus on the idea that help was on the way. He was unable to concentrate on anything but willing himself to get through the pain, one second at a time.

Chance was beginning to experience involuntary tremors in his legs as his body struggled to hold up to the stress of staying upright despite the punishment it was receiving, and Grimes, ever the attentive torturer, returned the stun gun to his holdall and stood watching him for a moment.

"What do they want me to do?" Grimes muttered to himself, as he stared at Chance as though he were a particularly troublesome crossword puzzle. "He doesn't talk. He has nothing to say anyway, because I know, and they know that I know. Perhaps he isn't the test. A distraction? A decoy? But they know that I know…. I know that they know that I know…"

Chance wasn't particularly reassured by Grimes' little conversation with himself. If he decided that Chance was not integral to whatever test formed part of his paranoid delusion, he may decide that there was no point in keeping him alive. Grimes shook his head, and seemed to reach some kind of decision.

"What, you're giving up already?" Chance asked, trying to provoke a lucid response. "You were doing okay for a while there."

Grimes responded by kicking him in the gut, and Chance had to force himself to absorb the blow and not give into the natural urge to double over. He needed a moment to catch his breath before he could try speaking again, but when he caught the distant look in Grimes' eyes, he realised that he held no further interest to him, and talking to him wasn't likely to get him anywhere. Grimes even seemed slightly bored as he picked up a can of gasoline and unscrewed the lid.

Chance knew that his time was running out and there was still no sign of Guerrero, but rather than focus on the hopelessness of his situation, he found himself contemplating what his reaction would be to being too late to save him. It would be spectacular, that was for sure, but what if Guerrero was careless in his vengeance against Grimes? Not so long ago Guerrero's emotional response to the mere threat on Chance's wellbeing had resulted in him behaving rashly and getting himself hurt. If Chance were actually killed, he doubted Guerrero would have the presence of mind to ensure that he had a workable exit strategy after dealing with Grimes, and NCIS would eventually track down their location. Chance had faced his own mortality too many times before, and in terms of karma, he felt it was inevitable that he would one day meet a violent end, but the thought of being responsible for Guerrero's demise was something that truly frightened him.

It was more for Guerrero's sake than his own that he tried to talk to Grimes again. "You've served your country well, Lieutenant Grimes. That has not gone unnoticed by -" Chance's words were cut off abruptly when Grimes sloshed gasoline into his face. He managed to close his eyes in time to avoid being blinded, but the harsh fumes still made his eyes stream and sting. Only a small amount went in his mouth and he managed to spit that out as Grimes emptied the rest of the can over his body. As it hit the broken skin on his back, the gasoline burned like acid, and Chance bit down on his lip to stop himself from crying out as the pain and nausea threatened to induce another blackout. His mouth was full of the taste of blood and gasoline and regret.

Grimes tossed the empty gas can on to the workbench, and retrieved a book of matches from the side pocket of his holdall. Chance recognised the logo on the matchbook as one belonging to a bar Ames had once dragged the team into after the completion of a case. Guerrero hadn't been impressed by the bar's tourist-friendly ambiance, and when Chance remembered the expression on his face as Ames handed him drink in a hollowed out pineapple, complete with a sparkler and miniature pink umbrella, his heart ached with the thought that he'd never get to that murderous look on Guerrero's face again.

Grimes was about to strike a match when an unfamiliar voice called his name, startling Chance and dragging him out of his memories, back to the garage and his immanent death.

"Lieutenant Grimes, please put down the matches."

"Doctor Heatly?" Grimes seemed to have a little trouble adjusting to the sudden appearance of his doctor, but in his confusion, he dropped the matches, much to Chance's relief. "How.. Why… What are you doing here?"

"It's time for us to talk, Lieutenant Grimes. I'm here to help you decide your next move."


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's note: For those of you who are unfamiliar with the US Marine's motto: Semper Fidelis (often shortened to "Semper Fi") translates to "Always Faithful". Additional note at the end.**

* * *

The house at Half-Moon Bay was dark and deserted when Guerrero pulled up outside. He made a cursory sweep of the single floor building before going back to the car to retrieve the doctor. A thin line of light escaping beneath the garage door when he'd arrived had already pin-pointed the most likely place for Grimes to be holding Chance, but the heavy garage door didn't look like a promising place to enter unnoticed. His quick scout through the house had revealed an internal door that opened into the garage from the kitchen, and he reasoned that he'd stand a much better chance of opening that door without immediately alerting Grimes to his presence.

Guerrero uncuffed the doctor and pulled him to his feet, pressing a finger to his own lips to indicate that he should keep quiet. Heatly nodded and followed him into the house. Guerrero drew his gun and headed straight for the kitchen, and it occurred to Heatly that if he was ever going to make a run for it, now was the time. He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to him. It wasn't just the thought of what Guerrero might do to poor Mary, who was still locked in the trunk; or even the knowledge that he would face criminal charges over the way he'd mishandled Grimes' case that stopped him from running. It was the cold shame eating away at his soul that his actions were in part responsible for Grimes' descent into madness and the death of his wife.

Despite the fact that the lean physique of his youth had long since disappeared, thanks to a good twenty years behind a desk and the inevitable middle aged spread, in his heart, Heatly was still a Marine. He was ashamed that he'd let money seduce him into betraying everything he believed in, everything he'd fought for and good friends had died for.

_Semper Fidelis…_

What loyalty had he shown to God and country by accepting bribes to hide the extent of Grimes' deteriorating mental state? He'd told himself that he was doing the SEAL a favour by treating him quietly, that perhaps with the right treatment he could return to active duty without the unnecessary stigma of a diagnosis of a serious mental illness; but deep down he knew what he was doing was wrong. By all accounts Grimes was a good man, a good soldier, before all this happened. He had deserved to receive the appropriate treatment, to be taught to manage his condition with a little dignity, not cover it up until it ate him away from the inside. He owed it to Grimes to try to negotiate a way out of this mess without unleashing Guerrero on him. Despite what he'd said to Guerrero in the car, he wasn't entirely sure that Grimes' mind would be clear enough to use his combat skills to their full effect, and there was no way of knowing who, if anyone, would walk away from a confrontation between the two men.

Guerrero eased the door to the garage open in almost perfect silence. Heatly's view into the garage was obstructed by Guerrero himself, but he could see his face lit up in profile by the fluorescent light of the garage as he looked inside, and his stomach sank. Heatly had seen madness in many forms throughout the years; first as a Marine when he'd faced men caught up in the heat of the battle to survive, and later dealing with those who had been part of such horrific situations that their own minds twisted against them; but it wasn't madness that he saw in Guerrero's face at that moment. It was worse. He saw an iron-clad sanity, inflexible and calculating. He knew he was looking at a man who was capable of monstrous violence without being affected by it; but worst of all beneath that remained the capacity to care, and right now the one person it seemed he cared very deeply about was in danger. Heatly thought of what Guerrero had said at his office: _"There is nothing I wouldn't do to ensure my colleague's safety, and I mean nothing." _

Heatly knew he was going to have to step in now for there to be any chance to avoid carnage, so he reached out and put one hand on Guerrero's arm.

"Let me try," he whispered. Guerrero begrudgingly allowed him to trade places with him, and when Heatly saw what Grimes had done to his friend, he was amazed that Guerrero had shown so much restraint.

Heatly barely had time to take in the sight of the blonde man tied to a ring in the floor, noose around his neck and blood oozing from his bruised and lacerated back, before he noticed the can of gasoline in Grimes' hands.

"You've served your country well, Lieutenant Grimes" the blonde man said. "That has not gone unnoticed by -" Heatly winced as Grimes threw gasoline in the helpless man's face, and Guerrero immediately picked up on his reaction.

"What the fuck has he done?" Guerrero demanded.

"Put the gun away," Heatly replied. "Please. For the sake of your friend."

"What the…?" Guerrero was hit by the smell of gasoline as Heatly stepped into the garage.

"Dr Heatly?"

"It's time for us to talk, Lieutenant Grimes. I'm here to help you decide your next move."

* * *

When Chance heard the doctor's voice, he turned his head as far as the noose would allow, and saw the doorway though which he'd entered the garage. The room beyond the door was unlit, and the bright lights of the garage made it impossible for him to see who or what lay beyond that door, but he knew that Guerrero wasn't far away. He hid his relief, and coughed loudly, partly to signal to Guerrero that he was conscious and knew that he was there, but also to draw attention to the gasoline fumes. The chances of Guerrero firing off a round and missing his target were fairly remote, but if a round ricocheted off any of the numerous tools or metal surfaces in the garage, there was always the risk of a spark that could ignite the gasoline that was still dripping from his body.

"This is a test," Grimes said. "You're here to witness my test."

"The test is over, Lieutenant," Heatly replied. "It's time to report back to base for debriefing."

Grimes seemed to consider this for a moment. Chance could see that the doctor wasn't nearly as calm as he sought to appear. His face had the greasy sheen of a cold sweat to it, and despite the deliberately open and non-threatening body language he was trying to display, Chance could see the tremors in his hands. Heatly was anything but sure of how Grimes would react, and Chance wondered what it had taken for Guerrero to get him to co-operate.

"The test is over?" Grimes asked, frowning.

"Yes. It's over. You have done very well."

Grimes nodded, seeming to accept what the doctor was telling him. "But that's the final test, isn't it? To see if I complete my mission?"

"There is no mission, Grimes!" Heatly said, his fragile façade cracking as fear crept into his voice. "It's over! It's all over!"

A peaceful, almost serene look spread across Grimes' face, and for a moment Chance dared to hope that the doctor's words had pulled him back from the precipice; but then, almost as if in slow motion, Grimes planted one foot on Chance's chest and shoved. Chance managed to stay on his knees, but it really didn't matter; the noose snapped tight around his neck, the cord biting deep into his throat as his airway clamped shut. He dragged himself upright, but it was no use, the knot had pulled too tight and his hands were still bound behind his back, so he had no way to even try to loosen the knot.

Heatly tried to rush to his aid, but Grimes caught him by the shirt and punched him three times to the face in rapid succession, still with that eerie look of calm on his face. He probably would have beaten the man further, but he was distracted by the figure that appeared out of the darkness.

Despite Grimes having lost touch with reality, he still had the presence of mind to draw his knife when he saw Guerrero moving towards him. Guerrero had anticipated this, and rather than rushing in, he forced himself to hold back and focus on the fight rather than the sight of Chance slowly having the life choked out of him.

Flecks were already beginning to cloud Chance's vision, but he thought he saw the metallic gleam of a knife in Guerrero's hand before his sight began to fade away. His head seemed to grow too heavy to hold up, and as it lolled backwards he thought, _That's good. Guerrero is very good with knives._

"Help him," Guerrero said to Heatly.

A flicker of anger passed across Grimes' face, and his attention momentarily shifted back to where Heatly was struggling to his feet. Guerrero took advantage of the distraction and struck at with a punishing combination of blows that should have ended with a slash to the side of Grimes' neck, but as soon as the attack began, his attention snapped back to Guerrero. He countered his moves with a rapid series of blocks, before trapping Guerrero's arm against his body and raking his blade across Guerrero chest, leaving a long, but largely superficial gash, and shoving Guerrero away.

The move threw Guerrero for a second. There were only three rules when it came to a knife fight: expect to get cut; finish it fast; and fight to kill, because if you didn't, the other guy sure as hell would. There was nothing wrong with the speed of Grimes' movements, but the intent to kill, the will to strike the critical blow was not there.

There was no time to think. Chance was not breathing. How much time had passed since Grimes had kicked him? Thirty seconds? A minute? Chance was already losing consciousness. Had it been longer than that? How much longer did he have before it was too late?

Grimes kept looking at Chance, then Guerrero, then back to Chance again. Guerrero's blood was boiling, and every second was pulling Chance further away from him. Heatly had been right, Grimes still had the instincts and training to fight and kill, but for some reason he was holding back.

Guerrero tried again, throwing a flurry of punches, kicks and strikes at Grimes, but again he countered every move, deflecting what should have been lethal strikes into mere flesh wounds, scrapes and nicks. He was good, but not that good, and if Guerrero could just make himself focus on the fight instead of the colour draining from Chance's face, and the fact that he was _still not breathing,_ he could have made short work of taking Grimes down. But Chance's lips were now turning blue, despite Heatly's attempts to try to loosen the cable wrapped around his throat. If there was just more time…

Grimes seemed content to fight Guerrero off without making any attempt to finish the fight, and the way he kept throwing in wild, pointless slashes made it feel like he was just taunting him. In a sudden flash of clarity Guerrero understood what the SEAL was doing. He had no intention of even attempting to end the fight with Guerrero until Chance was dead. He'd been rambling on about some kind of test, but holding Guerrero off, keeping him occupied whilst Chance was strangled to death was his real objective. That's why he kept looking back at Chance; his life was just a way of keeping score. As long as Heatly's efforts to help Chance were ineffectual, he didn't bother to intervene; Guerrero was the real threat to the outcome of his "test".

Guerrero could see that if he didn't step in to help Chance immediately, it wouldn't matter what the outcome was with Grimes. So, as it had done more times than Guerrero cared to remember, it came down to doing what the other guy wouldn't, to pushing beyond the limits of what even a seasoned fighter might expect.

The exchange of blows was so fast that Guerrero was running on almost pure instinct, but he forced himself to push Chance from his mind and focus on finding the opening he needed. When the moment came, he almost missed it. His instinct was to deflect Grimes' blade away from himself when he went to make another of those infuriating slashes against his abdomen, but he caught himself just in time, and deflected the blow downwards and slammed his left leg onto the blade, burying it to the hilt into the flesh of his outer thigh.

There was a split second delay as Guerrero's nerve-endings took a moment to register the bone-jarring pain of the seven inch blade impaling his leg, but the adrenaline surging through his system at least kept him on his feet. Grimes seemed to be having trouble keeping up with events, and was trying to pull his knife free but the muscles in Guerrero's thigh had clamped down on the blade, making it next to impossible to pull it out. His face crumpled into a look of bewilderment as he kept tugging at the knife with both hands, seemingly unable to understand how it had got stuck, and Guerrero took advantage of his confusion and stabbed repeatedly at the undefended area under his left arm.

The look of confusion was replaced by one of surprise on Grimes' face as he stumbled sideways under the force of the attack, and Guerrero made one final vicious slash across his throat as Grimes slumped to the ground, his eyes wide with disbelief as he bled out onto the bare concrete floor.

Guerrero ditched his knife and scanned the array of tools hanging on the wall over the workbench, before grabbing a set of bolt cutters. His injured leg was stiff and next to useless as he dragged himself across to where Heatly was still trying to dig the cable out of Chance's neck.

"Hold him up!" Guerrero ordered, and the doctor did his best to hold Chance upright as Guerrero cut through the knot as close to Chance's neck as he could.

It seemed to take forever, but finally the cable gave way and Chance slumped back awkwardly into Heatly's arms. Guerrero didn't waste time trying to free Chance's hands and feet from where they were still tethered to the ring in the floor; the only thing that mattered was making him breathe. Guerrero threw himself to the floor beside him and used the bolt cutters to work away at the remains of the knot until the cable finally fell away. He felt for a pulse, and it was there. Slow, but definitely still there, despite the fact that Chance still wasn't breathing.

It wasn't the ideal position in which to perform mouth to mouth; Chance's limbs were still tangled beneath him, but Heatly supported his head as Guerrero tipped it back, pinched his nose shut and covered his mouth with his own, forcing air into his lungs.

Guerrero was oblivious to the pain in his leg as he poured every ounce of strength and will power into bringing Chance back. There was little resistance as he forced the breath back into his body, and his chest was rising and falling, so it seemed that at least his airway had only been squeezed shut, not entirely crushed.

It took both an eternity and only three breaths before Chance gave a weak cough and began breathing on his own.

"Chance! Chance, can you hear me?" Guerrero asked, holding his face in his hands. "Open your eyes, dude…"

His eyelids started to flutter, and he tried to groan but the sound caught in his throat and turned into a dry, hacking cough.

"Just shut up and concentrate on breathing, okay?" Guerrero said with equal parts relief, affection and exasperation.

Chance opened his eyes and looked up at him. It took a second for him to focus on Guerrero's relieved and blood splattered face, but as soon as he did, his face broke out in a wide grin.

Guerrero smiled back at him and mutter an affectionate "dude" just as Chance's eyes rolled back and he passed out.

* * *

**A/N: I have it on EXCELLENT authority that "once the knife penetrates the dense muscle of the thigh, the muscle squeezes the knife so hard that it's near impossible to get out", despite what we see in "Baptiste" when Chance pulls a knife out of his leg and throws it as Baptiste! Big thank you to Bam Bam for sharing this crucial bit of info and thank you TJ for your seal of approval on the action sequence!**


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's note: Big thank you to my mate TJ for her help in fine-tuning this chapter!**

* * *

"You're friend is going to need a hospital," Heatly said. "I can call for an ambulance from the landline, if it's still connected, but…"

"No hospitals!" Guerrero snapped at him. He'd managed to cut Chance free from the restraints that had been tethering him to the ground, and Heatly had helped him get him lying on his side. Guerrero was sitting on the floor with Chance's head resting on his uninjured leg, and he was examining the extent of his injuries. As far as he could tell, the damage to his back was fairly superficial, nothing that wouldn't heal given time, but the fact that he was still drenched with gasoline was giving him cause for concern. Aside from the obvious threat of something igniting it, Guerrero knew that the gasoline alone could cause chemical burns if it was left on the skin long enough, and it wasn't going to do Chance's open wounds any good, not to mention his breathing.

Guerrero looked around and spotted a garden hose wrapped around a spool by a faucet on the wall, next to the door leading back to the house. "Hook that hose up and bring it over here. I need to wash this shit off of him."

Heatly did as he was ordered, turning on the water and handing him the hose in silence. Guerrero let the water flow over his hands, washing away the blood before gently wiping the gasoline from Chance's face. He took care to ensure that the water didn't run into his nose or mouth, and Chance began to stir.

"Easy," Guerrero murmured, as he rinsed the water through his hair.

Heatly was taken aback by the unexpected tenderness in Guerrero's voice, and the gentle way he was caring for his friend. It seemed that the blonde man was a great deal more than just a colleague, but he wisely decided to keep his suspicions to himself.

When Guerrero seemed satisfied that he'd washed away as much gasoline from his face and head as he could, he sighed.

"Sorry Chance, but this is gonna hurt."

He winced as he turned the hose on to the bloody mess on Chance's back. The shock of the cold water on his wounds started to revive him, and Guerrero had to catch Chance's hand as he tried to reach behind him to fend off whatever was responsible for inflicting this new wave of agony.

"Hey, lie still," Guerrero murmured soothingly. "I've got you, okay? But I have to wash this shit off your back. I've got you…I've got you…"

Chance shivered and screwed up his face as Guerrero continued to irrigate his wounds as gently as he could, but he did seem to respond to his voice and calm down a little, although he clung on to Guerrero's hand as if his life depended on it.

"Look, I understand your reluctance to involved the authorities, I really do," Heatly said, glancing over at where Grimes' body lay in a pool of blood, his eyes still wide open and staring up in disbelief at where Guerrero had stood. "But your friend, Chance, he needs a hospital and proper medical treatment! Listen to his breathing! The cable, the fumes and now being soaking wet! What's going to happen if his airway swells shut?"

Chance's breathing was laboured, and there was already bruising and swelling to his throat from where the cable had bitten deep into his flesh. Guerrero hadn't thought much past getting him breathing again, but he could see the doctor had a point, Chance's condition was anything but stable. There was his own wounds to consider too, driving with a knife still sticking out of his leg was likely to prove difficult. He'd managed to miss all the major blood vessels, but his leg felt unnaturally heavy and unresponsive, as well as hurting like hell. He was in no condition to get either of them to one of his alternative healthcare providers, the nearest of whom was a alcoholic former army medic who was at least a half hour drive away.

"Fine," Guerrero sighed, resigning himself to the fact that, given the situation, he had no other choice. "Call an ambulance."

When Heatly didn't move, Guerrero frowned. "What are you waiting for? Move!"

"Mary is still in the trunk…"

"And she's gonna stay there until you call the fucking ambulance!"

Heatly looked as if he was going to push the matter, but when Guerrero dropped the hosepipe and reached beneath his jacket and pulled out his gun, he got the message and hurried inside the house to make the call without further argument.

Chance was still shivering, so Guerrero pried his hand free from his grip and managed to shrug his jacket off. It was wet and splattered in places with god-knows-whose blood, but it was better than nothing. Guerrero carefully placed it over Chance's arms and chest, taking care not to let it touch the seeping wounds on his back.

The whole nightmarish scene in the garage was going to require an explanation when the ambulance showed up , but Guerrero couldn't bring himself to care. It was obvious enough from Chance's wounds that he hadn't been the antagonist in all of this, and Guerrero would just have to deal with the fallout of his own actions later once Chance was warm, dry and suitably medicated.

Guerrero's concept of time was a little hazy as he sat with Chance waiting for the ambulance, but at some point the heard the sound of a vehicle pull up outside the garage. He tore his gaze away from Chance's shivering form and watched the doorway apprehensively, but when Winston walked in rather than the medical personnel he'd been hoping for, he grunted and turned back to watching Chance's laboured breathing.

"What the…?" Winston spluttered, looking around the garage and taking in the general carnage of the scene around him. "This is what you call handling a situation?"

Guerrero glared at him for a second, but didn't dignify his question with an answer.

"What the hell happened here?" Winston asked. "Why is Chance soaking wet?"

"What the fuck do you think happened?" Guerrero snapped. "That maniac nearly killed Chance! And he's wet because I thought water was preferable to gasoline, okay? You got any more questions?"

Winston frowned, and he was about to really lay into Guerrero when he noticed the knife sticking out of his leg and the blood that was seeping through his jeans. Guerrero was so intent on tending to Chance that he'd done nothing to staunch the slow ooze of blood from his own injury. He swallowed the harsh words he'd been about to throw in Guerrero's face when he realised that it seemed he'd done everything he could for Chance. Winston took off his own jacket and lay it carefully over Chance's legs, and for a second Guerrero actually looked grateful before his expression turned back into a concerned scowl.

"We need to get out of here. Heatly went to call an ambulance and we need to be gone before it shows up. I probably can't drive, but-"

"Are you out of your goddamn mind?" Winston snapped. "Look at him!" Chance was grey faced and shivering, and judging from the state of his back and the rasping sound of his breathing, it wasn't just from the cold. "What the hell are you going to do if he stops breathing? Did you even think of that? He needs proper medical attention. We can't just bundle him into the back on the van and take him off to see one of your shady contacts!"

"There's no time-"

"The ambulance is already on its way, Guerrero, and they have the equipment to help him! What are you going to do if he stops breathing? Give him a makeshift tracheotomy with a pocket knife and ballpoint pen?"

The thought of having to cut into Chance's throat turned Guerrero's stomach, and forced him to face the danger he'd be putting him into. If the situation really demanded it, he wouldn't hesitate to do whatever it took to save him, but in this case it was in Chance's best interests to wait for the ambulance.

"Alright. Wait for the ambulance then. But I need to be gone before the cops show up. If you help get to the car I should be able to…" Guerrero's voice faded away as Chance reached for his hand and squeezed it. He looked down and saw a look of grim determination in Chance's eyes. "Dude, I can't…" Chance squeezed his hand again, harder this time, and tried to shake his head, which only set off another dry hacking cough.

"Hey, take it easy," Guerrero said, rubbing at Chance's hand, which was still gripping his. As soon as the coughing subsided, Chance mouthed the word "stay", effectively taking the decision out of Guerrero's hands. He could try and kid himself that he had to give in to Chance to keep him calm, but the truth was a bit more complicated than that. Chance needed him, and it would have taken more strength than he had to leave him like that. Whether he liked it or not, what he felt for Chance was much stronger than his own sense of self-preservation, or his aversion to jail.

"You really gonna leave him like this?" Winston asked.

"No," Guerrero sighed. "No, I'm not. I doubt I'd even be able to drive right now anyway."

Chance smiled at him, and Guerrero suspected that he knew the reason he was staying had nothing to do with whether he was able to drive or not.

"Well, you've managed to make one hell of a mess here!" Winston said, looking at Grimes' lifeless body. He found he had no sympathy for Grimes; whatever he'd done to Chance had nearly killed him, and he couldn't help feeling a certain satisfaction in knowing that Guerrero had dealt with him so brutally.

"Yeah, but I wasn't exactly planning on sticking around to clean it up."

"I dropped Ames back at the apartment building and she fed NCIS some bullshit story about Grimes heading for the docks, but I don't think that will keep them busy for long, not when the paramedics get here and call it in."

Guerrero nodded and pulled his keys out of his pocket, holding them out to Winston. "Probably best if you let Heatly's receptionist out of the trunk before they get here."

Winston's eyebrows shot up, but he nodded and took the keys without a word, and headed back into the kitchen where Heatly was hovering nervously.

"I didn't think it was wise to go back in there," Heatly admitted shame-facedly. "Not when your colleague was so upset and, well, armed.

"Good call," Winston said, handing him the keys to Guerrero's car.

Heatly accepted them with a grateful look.

"I don't think I need to point out that Guerrero is not a man you want to cross," Winston said. "Don't even think about taking off in his car."

The blood drained fom Heatly's face and he shuddered. "I don't have a death wish! I'll let Mary out and come straight back."

Winston nodded, picked up a clean-ish looking tea towel and walked back into the garage.

"You given any thought to how we're gonna explain all this?" he asked, crouching down and carefully pressing the towel to the wound on Guerrero's leg.

"Not really," Guerrero answered, wincing and slapping Winston's hands away. "It's pretty self-explanatory, don'tcha think?"

Winston grunted. "Not sure that's what the Navy guys are going to think."

"Maybe I can help."

Winston and Guerrero turned to look at Heatly, who was standing in the doorway with a terrified woman clinging to his side.

"Bit late for that, doc," Guerrero sneered.

Heatly winced. "All of this is my fault."

"No arguments there," Winston mumbled.

"So I think the least I can do is take responsibility for it. I'll tell NCIS that I hired you to monitor Grimes, and that when we found him, you fought but I was the one who killed him."

Guerrero let out a humourless laugh. "You really think anyone is going to buy that? You're a bit past your fighting days, doc."

"They don't need to believe it, they just need an explanation," Heatly replied. "The threat of going public about a decorated SEAL, a war hero no less, kidnapping and torturing an innocent private citizen should be enough for them to accept whatever explanation we agree on. The military abhors scandal."

"He has a point," Winston conceded. "I think it's worth a try."

Guerrero shook his head. "Fine. Whatever. You may want to consider finding my knife and putting your prints on it though."

"James, no!" the tearful woman at Heatly's side sobbed.

"It's alright, Mary," Heatly said. "I need to do this!"

"But he kidnapped you!" she said, pointing an accusing finger at Guerrero. "And he locked me in the trunk of his car and…"

"Is she gonna be a problem?" Guerrero asked, giving the woman a calculating look.

"No!" Heatly replied sharply.

"'Cause if she is…"

"She'll be fine!" Heatly insisted. "Won't you?"

"I can't… I can't lie about-"

"Maybe it's best if you just say you fainted," Winston said carefully. "You can tell them that you were in the car and didn't see anything. That's no too far from the truth."

Mary sobbed, but nodded her head.

"We'd better find that knife," Heatly said.

* * *

A police car turned up with the ambulance, but luckily the paramedics overruled the cops' attempts to get a statement from Guerrero, insisting that he join Chance in the back of the ambulance and be taken to hospital immediately. It was hard for the cops to put up much of an argument, what with the knife still lodged in Guerrero leg, and Chance's breathing was only getting worse, so they had to be content with talking to Winston, Healy and a very distraught Mary.

Riding in the back of the ambulance set Guerrero's teeth on edge, but Chance was definitely breathing easier once the paramedic started him on oxygen, and his colour soon improved. The medic only made the mistake of trying to give Guerrero some pain relief once, before turning his attention exclusively to treating Chance, who was visibly amused by what Guerrero had told the man he could do with his needles.

Guerrero was trying not to think about just how close he'd been to losing him. There had been close calls before, but this was different. It had been like a nightmare, seeing Chance dying and being unable to reach him, to help him. He'd felt powerless, and even now that it was all over, he didn't know how to deal with that. It wasn't just what Grimes had done that was a problem, it was the fact that his feelings for Chance had such a complete hold over him. He was sitting in the back of a fucking ambulance, for fucks sake, on the way to a hospital full of forms and paperwork. Even Ilsa had respected his need to stay off the grid, but here he was stepping into the establishment's web of bureaucracy, if not exactly willingly then certainly through some kind of choice.

This thing with Chance was almost too much for him to handle. He'd been angry when the CIA had threatened his son, but what had been unleashed in him when he saw Chance dying was more like madness, pulling apart everything he thought he knew about himself. He'd have willing taken that blade right through his heart, if that's what it would have taken to save him. Thankfully, it hadn't come to that but the thought still bothered him, nagging away at him until he couldn't ignore its significance any longer. He loved Chance, and not just as a friend or comrade, he was _in love _with him.

Guerrero looked at Chance lying awkwardly on his side to avoid putting pressure on his injured back, and wondered if he knew. Chance had pushed for their relationship to change even as Guerrero had tried to take a step back after the Mcvey case. He'd told Chance that they needed to take this thing seriously, that there would be serious consequences if they didn't, but even that had been more about possessiveness and jealousy than facing what he was feeling. It was an objective statement of fact that now felt cold, hollow and insufficient. What he felt was much more than the need to have Chance all to himself, and his feelings for Chance were like a computer virus that was systematically changing his programming and over-writing key files. The damage was irreparable and permanent, but Guerrero found not only could he live with it, he welcomed it. He was in love, and despite the inherent weaknesses that it exposed, there was a new kind of strength there too.

Chance knew, of course he knew. How could he not?

But what if he didn't? Could he risk that? Guerrero wasn't even sure he could make himself say the words to tell him how he felt, but for the first time he felt the pressing need to try. The feelings had been there for a while now, but he'd managed not to dwell on them. Nearly losing Chance had brought them into sharp focus, forcing him to acknowledge them as a central part of who he now was.

Chance slowly opened his eyes. He had a slightly sleepy look, thanks to the pain meds that the paramedic had given him, but there was a hint of satisfaction in his eyes when he looked up and saw Guerrero at his side.

Guerrero would talk to him about it, but not now, not in the back of a goddamn ambulance. In the meantime he was going to watch Chance like a hawk and make sure that the paramedic didn't put so much as a toenail wrong. He almost certainly didn't know it, but Chance was the most important patient he'd ever treated, and if he made a mistake, the consequences would be immediate and permanent.


	31. Chapter 31

**Author's note: Thank you to everyone who has left such great comments on this fic! Thankfully Chance is over the worst of his ordeal! :)**

* * *

The detectives who showed up after Chance and Guerrero left in the ambulance were reluctant to hand over such an unusual case, so a couple of hours went by before Winston was cleared to leave the crime scene. As predicted, the NCIS officers weren't thrilled by the version of events Heatly and Winston gave them, but they were forced to consider them once Heatly outlined the alternative. The officer in charge related the situation to his CO in hushed tones over the phone, and the decision was made to accept Heatly's statement as the truth, pending further investigation. Winston was relieved that, against all protocol, Guerrero and Chance would not be questioned, and NCIS would be satisfied with a simple written statement from Chance.

When Winston arrived at the hospital he wasn't surprised to find that Guerrero had managed to secure Chance a private room, and was seated at his bedside with his injured leg propped up on the bed.

"Hey, how's he doing?" Winston asked, taking in the fairly spectacular bruising to Chance's face and neck, and the breathing tube.

"They had to intubate 'cause of the swelling to his throat, and so they could sedate him whilst they patched up his back," Guerrero explained, "but it's not quite as bad at it looks. If there aren't any complications with his breathing, he should be out in a couple of days. He took a good few knocks to the head, but the doctors don't seem too worried about it. He dislocated his shoulder at some point too, but either Grimes reset it for him or he managed to do it himself, so there shouldn't be any long-term damage."

Winston nodded, shocked both by Guerrero's uncharacteristically helpful explanation, and his exhausted, sarcasm-free tone of voice. He'd obviously been through a lot, and for once it really showed. Winston could see he was still worried about Chance, despite the positive prognosis.

"You really came through for Chance," he said.

"Don't I always?"

_Damn him! Couldn't he just take a complement when it was offered? _

"It's not a easy thing to do, loving a man like Chance," Winston persevered.

Guerrero gave no indication of having heard him, but Winston figured he owed him this much after giving him such a hard time to get him and Chance into the damn ambulance, so he pressed on.

"There aren't many people up to the job, and I'll admit, I had my doubts. Serious doubts. It was easier for me to just pretend it wasn't happening, this thing between you two. I was concerned that maybe it was just a physical thing and-"

"Dude, I get it. You made your feelings abundantly clear already. You think we didn't notice the theatrical coughing every time you walked into a room when you thought we were alone together?"

"Yeah, okay. Maybe I wasn't exactly subtle but-"

"It would have been funny if it weren't so pathetic…"

"I'm sorry, okay?"

"Seriously, dude. We do have some level of self control, y'know?"

Winston clamped his mouth shut and forced himself to count to ten before starting over.

"You love Chance. And Chance loves you, I had a hard time getting my head round that, but I see now that it makes a lot of sense. Maybe you are uniquely qualified to deal with all his emotional shit, and you understand him. I mean really understand, not just what makes him tick, but what it's going to take to keep him happy and safe."

Guerrero narrowed his eyes. "Careful, Winston. That almost sounded like you were giving us your blessing."

"Well, maybe I am. In a way."

Guerrero took a deep breath and exhaled slowly through his nose. "I couldn't give a shit what you think, but… I think it will mean something to Chance, so thank you."

Winston nodded.

"How's your leg?" he asked.

"Still attached," Guerrero shrugged.

"Cut the macho bullshit, Guerrero! The last time I saw you, you had a knife sticking out of your leg! Shouldn't you be resting up in a bed of your own?"

"They wanted to take me into surgery, so I told them I didn't have insurance. They were happy to shoot me up with muscle relaxants and yank it out under a local. They stitched me up, gave me these nifty crutches and discharged me. No muss, no fuss."

Winston winced. "Heatly told me what happened. Did you really stick that knife in your leg yourself?"

"More or less, yeah."

"But why?"

"Chance was dying," Guerrero replied, as if that explained everything.

"But-"

"Look, I knew there was a good chance that if I got stabbed in the thigh, the knife was likely to get stuck so I could dispose of Grimes quickly and help Chance. Yes, it hurt like hell, but it got the job done. Any more questions?"

"So you knew it would work?"

Guerrero shrugged again. "Got enough knives stuck in other people's legs over the years to figure it was worth a shot."

Winston tried to push the image of Guerrero stabbing multiple victims in the spirit of scientific enquiry from his mind. He was certain that the idea was just a product of his imagination, but something about the image just seemed to lodge in his brain.

"They're keeping Chance sedated over night," Guerrero said. "So you may as well go home."

"I've got to go pick up Ames first. I spoke to her earlier and she's made herself quite comfortable in that woman's apartment."

"You might want to check her pockets before she leaves."

"Probably not a bad idea," Winston smiled. "Speaking of bad ideas, you should be resting. Falling asleep in that chair is not gonna do you any favours. If Chance is gonna be sedated the whole time anyway…"

"It's fine. I've made arrangements."

Winston waited for him to elaborate, but Guerrero went back to watching the rise and fall of Chance's chest.

"You need anything?" Winston asked, expecting the answer to be no.

"Yeah," Guerrero frowned looking down at his blood stained shirt and the faded pair of hospital scrubs he'd been given to replace his jeans which had been cut open to gain access to his injury. "Any chance you could grab my a pair of jeans and maybe a clean shirt on your way in tomorrow?"

Winston raised his eyebrows and made a note of Guerrero's size.

"Nothing to tight though. I still gotta be able to get them on over this dressing."

Guerrero _never _asked for help. Winston knew that this rare request for a favour was likely to be Guerrero's round about way of accepting his apology.

"Call me if anything changes," Winston said.

* * *

It was a long night, and Guerrero didn't get much sleep, but thanks to the fold-out bed he'd procured from nervous orderly, at least he could stretch out in relative comfort. There was no visible change in Chance's condition, and the nurse who checked up on him periodically through the night tried to reassure Guerrero that he was doing well.

It was nine am before the doctor made his rounds, and Guerrero was about to kick up a stink if someone didn't come and tell him what was going on ,when the doctor finally arrived.

"And you are?" the doctor inquired.

"Your patient's partner," Guerrero said, leaving it to the doctor to interpret that however he liked.

"I see."

The doctor looked over Chance's chart before performing a brief examination.

"We should be able to extubate Mr Chance this afternoon," he said, scribbling on Chance's notes and returning them to the foot of his bed.

As he started to leave, Guerrero said: "Wait. That's it?"

The doctor gave a heavy sigh. "Your partner has been very fortunate. His condition is stable, there appear to be no complications and the swelling in his throat is already going down. His other injuries are relatively minor. We'll need to keep an eye on him for a day or two to make sure that he doesn't develop any respiratory infections, but aside from that there is little we can do other than make him comfortable and give his body the chance to heal."

Guerrero sank into the chair beside Chance's bed. It seemed so surreal. Yesterday Chance was dying. Today he just needed some time to rest and recuperate.

"If you have any further questions, please feel free to address them with a member of the medical staff."

Guerrero nodded, only half aware of what the doctor was saying to him.

_Chance really was going to be okay…_

He didn't even see the doctor leave.

* * *

Winston spent the morning fielding phone calls from NCIS. He knew that it was too good to be true, the way they released him from the crime scene with little more than a promise to ensure Chance provided a written statement. Once they completed the investigation and clean-up of the garage, they started looking into Chance's involvement in the case, which meant they were investigating the team too. Winston tried to keep Ilsa's name out of it, but they made the connection with the Marshall Pucci Foundation on their own. Even though Winston tried to explain that the team no longer had any kind of affiliation with the Foundation, they contacted Ilsa anyway, so he had to spend an hour or so on the phone to London persuading her that Chance was going to be okay, and there was no need for her to fly back to be at his bedside. In the end he had to resort to telling her about Guerrero's bedside vigil, which did make her back off, but left him feeling like a total asshole for rubbing her face in it.

Guerrero phoned mid-morning to tell him that they were going to remove Chance's breathing tube in the afternoon, and where the hell were those fresh clothes he'd been promised? Winston hadn't exactly forgotten, but clothes shopping for Guerrero was way down his list of priorities. He told Guerrero that Ames would stop by with the clothes. As much as he wanted to be there when Chance woke up, he just couldn't get away.

"So I get to dress Guerrero?" Ames asked.

"No you get to buy him a shirt and pair of jeans, and drop them at the hospital. Don't even think about getting creative!"

Ames pouted a little, but agreed to buy only the items Guerrero had requested. Winston was still a little suspicious of the glint in her eye, but figured she couldn't go far wrong with a pair of jeans and a shirt. Besides, if what she picked out was really that awful Guerrero still had his scrubs. Plus there would be doctors on hand if she was stupid enough to piss him off.

* * *

Guerrero nodded off in the chair beside Chance's bed after the doctor's visit. The fold out bed had been tucked away for the day, and he'd only intended to close his eyes for a moment or two, but he fell into a deep sleep.

He was abruptly woken up when Ames dumped a bag in his lap, and he reached for his gun, only to remember that Winston had insisted he had it over before he got into the ambulance.

"What the fuck?"

"Oh my god! He looks half dead!" Ames said, leaning over Chance. "He's gonna be alright though? Winston said he's gonna by fine, right?"

"Yeah, the doc said there's no lasting damage," Guerrero said, pushing his glasses up and rubbing at his eyes.

"Chance! Can You Hear Me!" Ames said, loudly enunciating every word at if she was speaking to someone hard of hearing. "It's Ames, Chance!"

"What the hell are you doing?" Guerrero asked.

"It's supposed to help, right? Hearing a familiar voice. It helps them wake up or something."

"He's not in a coma, you retard! He's sedated! He'll wake up just fine when they stop giving him the drugs!"

"Oh," Ames said, looking a bit deflated.

Guerrero investigated the contents of the bag. The jeans were fine, but nestled beneath them was a red t-shirt, and when Guerrero unfolded it, Ames grinned.

"Ames."

"Yes?"

"What the fuck is this?"

"It's a t-shirt Guerrero."

"I see that. But why does it have a picture of a rainbow on it?"

"I thought it was cheerful. Don't you like it?"

"And the unicorn?"

"Er, it went with the rainbow?"

"Leave."

"What?"

"Leave. Now, before I change my mind."

"But-"

"Get. Out. NOW!"

"Jeez, I was only trying to lighten things up a bit," she sniggered, ducking the water jug that Guerrero launched at her head as she ran out the door.


	32. Chapter 32

**Author's note: Well dear readers, this is (at last) almost the end of 'Comfort'. I will endeavour to write a short, slashy epilogue for you, but the main story is over! Thanks for all the reviews and comments, they kept my email inbox a very happy place!**

* * *

When Chance found that he couldn't swallow, he panicked a little. The sensation wasn't of his throat being crushed, rather that it was being held open by something plastic and slightly too large.

"_He's coming round…"_

Somewhere deep in the fog of his mind, he realised that he must be in a hospital and the cause of the odd sensation in his throat was helping him breathe.

He forced himself to relax, and sank back into the fog.

* * *

He surfaced again later, unsure of how much time had passed.

"_I need you to cough, Christopher!"_

"_It's Chance. Just Chance. No one calls him Christopher."_

He recognised the second voice as Guerrero.

"_Please cough for me, Mr Chance!"_

He coughed, and there was an odd pulling, sliding sensation as the tube was removed, and then he could swallow again.

"_Excellent."_

He drifted a bit after that. Not quite conscious, but not quite asleep either, but he was dimly aware of the presence of someone at his bedside, and that he'd been propped up into a reclining position.

When the fog finally receded, he saw Guerrero watching him anxiously. Chance smiled.

"Hey," Guerrero said.

"Hey yourself," Chance tried to reply, surprised by how hoarse he sounded, and the way the words seemed to catch in his throat. He tried to cough, but that just made his throat sore.

Guerrero poured him a glass of water from the jug on the nightstand.

"Here. Drink it slowly."

Chance sipped at it, and the tepid water did help soothe away the urge to cough somewhat.

He handed the glass back to Guerrero, and as he did, he noticed his t-shirt for the first time and frowned.

_I must be on the good stuff, _he thought_, 'cause there's no way Guerrero is really wearing a t-shirt with a unicorn on it._

"What's wrong?" Guerrero asked, concerned.

Chance pointed to his chest and said: "Unicorn?"

Guerrero relaxed a little and rolled his eyes. "That would be Ames' idea of a joke. I needed fresh clothes 'cause people kept bleeding over the last lot."

Chance grinned, and his shoulders shook with the effort of trying not to laugh and aggravate his throat further. Unfortunately the movement made him hurt everywhere else instead. He was fairly sure that the pain in his ribs and shoulder, although unpleasant, was mainly just bruising, but he had no idea what kind of shape his back was in. He reasoned that it couldn't be too bad if the doctors had been happy for him to lie flat on his back, but as the drugs wore off the skin felt stretched too tight and sore.

"My back…"

"Yeah, Grimes messed it up pretty bad."

"How bad?"

"Well, you remember the ngulu blade?"

Chance winced. "Yeah."

"Well, it's nothing like that bad, so don't be a baby about a few stitches and some bruising."

Again Chance struggled not to laugh, and it made his ribs hurt and pulled at the stitches in his back. He flinched.

"Shit! Sorry, I didn't mean-"

"Yeah, you did. But it's okay. I'll live."

Guerrero took his hand, and they sat in silence for a while. They were both a little self-conscious about holding hands, but as the minutes ticked by, neither of them pulled back. They both drew comfort from being able maintain some sort of physical contact between them, however awkward it made them feel.

"You nearly didn't," Guerrero said. "Live, I mean. It was a close call."

"Yeah. Some of it's still a bit hazy, but I remember…" Chance fell silent for a moment. "I remember seeing you walk into the garage."

"I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."

"Me too," Chance said, smiling. "But I knew you'd come through for me. You always do."

Guerrero gave an amused grunt.

"What?" Chance asked.

"Just something Winston said when you were out for the count."

"He gave you a hard time?"

"No, actually he didn't," Guerrero said. "He kinda gave us his blessing."

Guerrero watched Chance carefully, studying his reaction.

"Oh," Chance said. This seemed to be an inadequate response, so he added: "Well that's good, I guess. I assume you told him where to stick it?"

"Not in so many words."

Chance tried to reach for the water at his bedside, but found that twisting his body was a very bad idea. Guerrero passed him the glass.

"Take it easy. You're gonna have to rest up for a bit. How's your throat?"

"Sore," Chance admitted, after he'd emptied the glass.

"All this talking can't be helping."

They sat quietly for a while, but Chance could see something was bothering Guerrero.

"You don't have to stay here with me. Hospitals aren't exactly your favourite places…"

"No, it's fine."

"Are you okay? I see a few nicks and bruises, but I assume you wiped the floor with Grimes, right?"

"Yeah. I got stuck in the leg, but it's no big deal."

"Then what's bugging you?"

Guerrero stared at Chance's hand in his for a moment.

"Guerrero?"

"You'd stopped breathing. In the garage. You were dying." He paused, but Chance waited, giving him time to organise his thoughts. Whatever he had to say obviously wasn't easy for him. "I got you breathing again but… It put things in perspective. And then there was something Winston said."

"The giving us his blessing thing?"

"No, something else. He said we loved each other."

"Oh, that."

Guerrero raised his eyes to meet his.

"Yeah, 'that'," he smiled.

Chance squirmed, suddenly feeling uncomfortable.

"That's what was bothering me," Guerrero said. "What if you didn't know? That I love you, I mean."

"I know, Guerrero," Chance replied. "It's just… not an easy thing to say."

"Well, I needed to say it."

Chance nodded. He knew that Guerrero understood that he felt the same way, and that he didn't need to say it out loud for his sake, but it wasn't enough. The unspoken words were weighing him down, and as much as the idea of letting them out scared him, he wasn't going to get any relief until he did.

"Guerrero?"

"Yeah?"

"I do too. I love you."

It felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He'd told Guerrero he loved him, and the world hadn't ended. In fact not only had the world not ended, he felt pretty fucking fantastic, even with all his aches and pains.

He grinned at Guerrero, and his answering smile told him that all the lies he'd lived with all this time were over. Love didn't have to lead to loss; it could give you the strength to endure, to survive, to really live. Guerrero wasn't going anywhere, and neither was he. They were strong enough to make this work.

* * *

The hospital staff were a little surprised just how quickly Chance bounced back once the sedatives had left his system. It wasn't unusual for someone who'd had a near-death experience to wake up with a renewed lust for life, but once the initial euphoria had passed, most patients would settle down once they had to face the reality of forced inactivity, pain management and boredom. Chance's good mood, however, was irrepressible

He accepted the pain meds that were given to him, but there was none of the usual pleading for stronger drugs, even when it was obvious that he was still in a lot of discomfort. He let doctors run their tests and perform their exams, but when he was offered the opportunity to speak to a psychologist (standard procedure in cases of strangulation or hanging) he politely but firmly declined.

His companion was far less accommodating, grumbling and glaring at anyone who dared enter the room and disturb the marathon poker game that he'd roped an orderly and one of the nurses into playing to keep his friend entertained. It didn't seem to matter how many times the Head Nurse confiscated the cards and threatened to kick the man in the ludicrous t-shirt out, Chance would give her a sorrowful look and charm her into letting him stay. She knew she was being played, but it was hard to resist when she knew she would be rewarded with a pulse-raising smile, complete with dimples, when she caved.

The poker game only came to an end in the evening, when Chance's other visitors returned.

* * *

"What the hell doing you think you're playing at, Guerrero?" Winston demanded, once he'd kicked the nurse and the orderly out of Chance's room. "Chance is supposed to be resting!"

"It's fine. Stop making such a fuss," Chance insisted.

"You nearly died! I think that merits a fuss!"

"But I didn't though. Look, still here!" Chance gave him a friendly little wave to prove his point.

Winston huffed and scowled at him.

"Aren't ya glad to see me?" Chance teased.

Winston sighed. "Yes, I'm glad to see you. You had us all worried."

"Not me," Ames chipped in. "I knew you were gonna be okay."

Guerrero grunted. "Says the girl who thought Chance was in a coma."

"Yeah, but I knew he was going to wake up!"

"And you didn't see the state him when we found him in that garage," Winston pointed out.

"We?" Guerrero said, raising a cynical eyebrow.

"Okay, when Guerrero found him."

Chance smiled and closed his eyes. He could feel the last lot of painkillers kicking in and they were making him drowsy. He fell asleep to the comforting sounds of his friends bickering with each other, feeling exhausted and sore, but content.


End file.
